


Cold Summer

by asparagusmama



Series: Seasons - AU season 5 [1]
Category: Lewis - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Coming Out, Crime Plot, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, canon divergence at season 4, originally written in 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brutal murder at a college but first Hathaway is a victim of a crime. Are they connected? Tagged rape/noncon for the long term affects of being a victim of such a crime, not for any details. Hopefully that does not give the murder away!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER ONE: FRIDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

**Author's Note:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

The sun glares, reflecting off the dreaming spires, the golden buildings. Down among the dreaming spires, and far less dreaming and very grey 1960s and ‘70s monstrosities, the concrete and the crowds, the traffic and the tourists, the everyday, any town, shops and offices, the shoppers and the workers, the many, many buses, the air thick with carbon monoxide a girl gazes from her tutor’s window.

*

Ayesha stared out of the window blank eyed, not noticing the busy rush hour traffic of The High solid with buses and people. The sun shone relentless and bright, glinting off the yellow stones of the buildings opposite. Gargoyles glared back menacingly. She was so horribly aware of the other’s presence in the room, his room! She twisted the soggy tissue in her hand and looked down at the growing pile on her lap. She needed to look down in her lap, out of the window, anywhere but at him. She thought he liked her. Well, he did, she supposed, but she meant liked her as in respected her, thought she was clever. He’d liked her essay. He always liked her essays. Was it all an excuse? She was so confused.

He watched her through cold eyes, waiting. When the girl had finished her ridiculously hysterical sobbing, quietened down to a snuffle and a few hiccoughs he spoke.

“You’re a highly intelligent young lady. I know you are quite capable of the first you so obviously crave. It would be a shame to come out with a third after all your hard work, or worse...to be sent down. It’s quite possible you know.”

Ayesha forced herself to turn to look at him, hiding her features in her long, loose black hair.

“I’m sure you know when it’s profitable for you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Why should I?” She had wanted to sound firm, aggressive, angry, in control. She sounded frightened, quiet. She wasn’t used to speaking to men in the best of circumstances, she came from a very traditional family.

“As I have said, it would be a shame not to get a first.” He slowly and deliberately picked up her essay from the desk and ripped it in half, dumping it in the bin. Ayesha stared in disbelief; she’d worked so hard on that essay. Okay, she had it on her laptop’s memory, but that was beside the point. It was the symbol that mattered. He could destroy her work, he could destroy her... If he hadn’t already. Ayesha felt sure she wasn’t the first to be treated like this, to be...

Holding back a sob with her hand over her mouth she nodded. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Do you want me to print out another copy of the essay?” she mumbled into her hand, looking down.

“Just at the end of term, with the rest of you work. I knew you’d see sense Ayesha. You’re a good girl.”

What choice did she have. Who could she go to? The Master? The police? Would they believe her? Even so, she wouldn’t. The knowledge would kill Ama. As for her father... Ayesha grabbed her bag and fled the room, walking with as much dignity as she could, barely concealing her discomfort.

*

On the very outskirts of Oxford, to the north, where the A40 and A34 meet in a mess of roads, junctions, traffic, car parks, service stations and new build houses a lorry turns into the huge truck park next to Oxford’s biggest park and ride, the original park and ride in the UK. As it turns, the lorry, Russian number plates and logos, is cut up by a fast red Golf Gti swerving in from the traffic and screaming past into the park and ride.

A few moments later, the car pulls fast but neatly into a space next to a grey Citroen. An elegant woman in a floral dress and shrug has just climbed out. She pulls in to her car, closing its door. A woman climbs out of the red car, dressed in bootleg cut jeans and heeled boots. A grey sleeveless smock complete the look. She grabs a pale grey cardigan and handbag and slams the door. She turns to the other woman.

“Hi Maddy. Bloody awful traffic all the way down. The others here yet?”

“I don’t know. We agreed to meet over there,” Maddy waves in the direction of the bus terminus. “Traffic can’t have been that bad, as I’m so early I thought I’d try there for a coffee.” Maddy points in the other direction of the truck stop, to a tea shack with signs written in Russian then Polish, with English a very small third. She turns and smiles. “Sorry, bit of a caffeine head. Bloody awful traffic up from London too.” She holds her arms out and air kisses her friend. “Hi Mandy. Good to see you. Do you think the others will come?”

“Ceris is definitely up for it. Spoke to her last night.” Mandy holds out her arm. “Let’s get that coffee.”

*

In their office Hathaway looked up sharply from his coffee as he heard Lewis laugh on the phone. He carefully arranged his features into neutral indifference as he listened.

“Yeah. Right. Well, providing the criminal classes behave themselves we should finally see it.

“No, no. Glynbourne would be best.

“Look, I’ve not had the time to look up the trains.

“Good. 1803? I should be able to...

“Meet you at the station.”

Lewis laughed again, then said his goodbyes and terminated the call. He stared pointedly at Hathaway.

“You want something?”

“Another date Sir? With the irrepressible Dr. Hobson?”

Lewis sighed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it isn’t a date. Just two friends going to the opera. The Fairy Queen. It’s now at Covent Garden. I’d take you, but I didn’t think you like opera.”

“I don’t Sir.”

“Well, a recital, a concert, the theatre...?”

Hathaway looked confused for a moment before resuming his neutral look. “Are you asking me out Sir?”

“Would that be so terrible?” Lewis asked with a smile, before grabbing his jacket and breezing out. “See you Tuesday, murder permitting,” he called over his shoulder and then was gone.

Hathaway looked down, chewing his thumbnail. “No,” he muttered to himself, “no, it wouldn’t be so terrible.”

*

Ayesha sat on her friend’s bed, the tears once again pouring from her face. She twisted the ends of her chemise – worn over skinny jeans and not a shalwar – while her friend sat silently by her side, tissue box on her lap, shoulder pressed to Ayesha’s.

“Blow your nose,” her friend, Maryam, said after a while, passing her a tissue. It took several tissues and a few deep breaths, before Ayesha was composed.

“I wish you would go to the police. I’ll come with you.”

“I can’t!”

“Why? That bastard doesn’t deserve to get away with it.”

“Aagh! God! You’re like a newborn babe. I can’t, my Dad’ll freak and it would break my Mum’s heart. How could I get married?”

Maryam, white with scruffy light brown hair and glasses, scowled, trying to understand, trying not to get angry at such a sexist, patriarchal interpretation of Islam. She breathed out, hard. “Okay. So what do you want to do?”

“Can I stay here? I can’t bear to go home. My Mum will see instantly something’s wrong, and I can’t tell her, I can’t, I can’t...” Ayesha burst into tears again.

“That’s fine. Of course you can stay here.”

Ayesha blew her nose, and momentarily composing herself, pulled her phone from her bag. It was a difficult conversation. She lived in Cowley, and although her parents had been so proud that she, a daughter of an immigrant factory worker and taxi driver had got into Oxford, she’d not been allowed to live in. She’d not even been allowed to go to sleepovers at school. It was so unfair! She had no intention of getting a boyfriend, going clubbing or drinking. She just wanted a bit of peace and quiet from her four brothers and baby sister, all the aunties popping in when she was trying to study, pinching her cheek and telling her she was pretty and clever and wasn’t it about time she got married. First, Ama wanted to send her father to bring her home in his taxi when he started his night shift driving a cab in Oxford. Apparently that wasn’t possible without her father getting in trouble. A three-way row between her parents and Ayesha began. Maryam calmly took the phone.

“As salaam alaykum Mrs Khan. Ayesha just needs a quiet space to study, she’s so behind with assignments. She came to my room with a headache, the library was so busy. My staircase is all female, it’s quiet. She can pray with me, get an early night and we can study all weekend. Most of the students are going away this weekend, those of us who haven’t gone down for the summer already. Okay. Fine. I’ll meet him.” Maryam turned to her best friend. “Your Dad’s meeting me at the Porter’s Lodge, just to see you’re safe. Your Mum’s packing you a bag. She says she doesn’t know how to explain your absence to the family, but you can stay with me all Bank Holiday providing your Dad likes me.”

Despite her despair, a big smile broke out on the girl’s face, making her seem younger, showing how pretty she truly was, “Oh thank you, thank you!” She flung her arms around Maryam.

“ No problem what so ever. What’s the big family do then?”

“Oh, nothing, its every weekend. Family poking their noses in, cousins in and out, aunties telling Mum to arrange my marriage. Oh God! How do I cope? You see why I can’t go to the police.”

Maryam smiled wryly. “No, not really. But if you’re going to insist on not going to the police, how about a hot bubbly bath?”

“You angel Mary-Jane!”

“Its Maryam now, remember?”

 

*

 

Hathaway walked to his car, furiously dialling his phone. Again, there was no answer.

“Jonjo. Why don’t you get back to me? Look, I just want to talk. I need to talk to someone else. I know we haven’t talked since Zoe... Look, I need to talk to someone I trust, I just... Oh hell.” He hung up.

*

At the bus terminus at Pear Tree Park and Ride three women sit on a bench: Maddy, Mandy and a slightly younger women, perhaps early forties rather than later. She is dressed entirely in pink, from the long fake talons at the end of her fingers to thin, high stilettos at the end of feet with the short, satin, low cut sun dress in-between. The designer pink handbag completes the ensemble. As they are about to give up and catch a bus a fourth woman rushes up to them. She appears to be shorter than the others, but then she wears flip-flops rather than heels, along with an ethnic print dress over raggedy jeans, her long fair hair flyaway and pulled off her face with a chiffon scarf.

“Hi. Hi. Sorry. Sorry. Mega accident on the M25. Thought I’d never get here. Don’t have hands free so couldn’t call.”

“No probs. You’re here now,” Mandy says, standing up, pulling the woman into a hug. “Good to see you Alice. How’s Lucy? Still together?”

Alice laughs. “Of course we are!” She turns to Maddy and Ceris and lots of air kissing and hugging ensue.

“Shall we go?” suggests Ceris, the pink wonder, and she teeters off to the bus. The others follow.

A man follows them on the bus, a man with cropped blond hair and a hard but not unattractive face. He asks for his ticket to Oxford city centre with some kind of eastern European accent.

*

Hathaway was on the phone again, this time at home, as his paced back and forth, glass of red wine in the other hand.

“Please Jonjo. I don’t know who else to talk to. It’s... Well it’s about time I was honest with myself. I just need... Oh shit!”

He threw the phone on to sofa, and putting down his glass picked up his guitar and sat down, lying back to strum a few cords.

“You’re a detective, James Hathaway,” he told his ceiling, “think!”

*

 

Professor Sebastian Charles walked into the dining room a little late, having missed grace. He sat down next to his colleague, Doctor Andrew Mortimore.

“Where’s the beautiful young terrorist today?”

“Mary-Jane Hartwell you mean? It’s a Bank Holiday weekend, perhaps she’s gone home. Perhaps she’s already gone down for the summer. How should I know? What’s the interest?”

“Had another delicious terrorist today, couldn’t get enough of me. A real doe eyed exotic Eastern dusky beauty.”

“I think you are something of a fantasist, Seb. A dirty old man. What could any young woman possibly see in you? I take it you are referring to Ayesha Khan. Neither she nor Miss Hartwell are terrorists. And as for Cowley, I know it’s east of here, but exotic?” Mortimore leaned in close, “Are you a closet Islamaphobe, Seb?” he whispered conspiratorially .

*

Maryam – or Mary Jane – Hartwell was in fact at the Porter’s Lodge, meeting Mr. Khan. She led him up to her room, patient with him whilst he stared at the buildings, the quad, taking in the history. All his adult life he’d lived in Oxford, but never been in a college. He’d never visited his daughter, he had no need. She lived at home. He knew Ayesha blamed him for that, but really, secretly, it wasn’t he who wore the trousers in their family. He just worked all the hours Allah sent to provide the money. Making cars by day and driving taxis by night. It was so beautiful and calm, like the inner court of the mosques he’d visited on his brief holiday following his much longed for Hajj. He could see why his daughter wanted to stay here to study, away from four noisy brothers and goodness knew how many boy cousins and neighbours in and out.

Maryam stood discreetly by the door while Mr. Khan and Ayesha hugged. He seemed really nice, with warm, twinkling, friendly brown eyes she’d noticed before she’d remembered she was a Muslim now and shouldn’t be staring into men’s eyes, not even older ‘uncles’. She thought he could tell Ayesha was hiding something, but that Ayesha couldn’t tell. Parents always know, Maryam decided. One day, when she’d completed her studies, Allah would provide a lovely Muslim convert man and she could have lots of children and be wise herself .

“Your mother worries Ayesha.”

“I’m fine, Abu, you can see that.”

“Beti, you look pale, maybe I should take you home and pay the fare?”

“Don’t be silly, you still might get told off. You know what a slave driver Uncle Hamza is. You’ll be late Abu.”

“Mr. Khan, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s nearly black outside and I must say Magreb.”

“Hm?”

“Namaz, Abu. Maryam never misses one.”

“You’re a good girl, little sister Maryam. Maybe she’s have an influence on you, Beti, maybe you’ll start covering your head too?”

“Abu!”

“I could never make someone do that. You should never make hijab except love of Allah, not for a big identity badge or anti west statement or to please a man, father or husband!”

“Such passion Miss Maryam. I was just teasing my little one. Sleep well Beti. Salaam Miss Maryam, Khudafiz Beti. Can I go out on my own?”

“You remember the way?”

As soon as her father had gone, Ayesha burst into tears again. Maryam ripped off her scarf and sat down besides her friend, hugging her tight.

*

Following dinner, Seb Charles left the college, for his usual tipple at his usual local. He and the night porter exchanged their usual banter regarding his habits and he walked up the High. He walked past a derelict sitting on a bench crooning to himself as a group of elderly Americans wandered by. Funny, the tramp looked like, oh what was his name, that crime writer, the name was on the tip of his mind! Just as he approached the pub he had to step into the road to avoid an attractive women in sort of hippy attire whiz by in her powered wheel chair. A scruffy child of perhaps 11 or 12 stood on the back of the chair, on the battery case, shouting something about missing the last bus. The mother was making soothing noises, pausing only to say a sorry and a thank you for his timely step into the road.

As Charles ordered his drink at the bar he turned to watch four rather attractive women in their forties enter pub. The barman commented on what handsome women they were, but secretly, for Seb, they were far to old. He murmured some innate comment as a reply and wandered off with his drink.

The women struggled into a corner table, private, and then Mandy went to get the drinks. As she approached the bar she bumped into a tall, skinny but not unattractive blond lad. They both apologized to each other, and he giggled nervously and his eyes scanned the bar desperately. He seemed very distracted. As she left the bar, precariously carrying four drinks – two pints, a white wine and a G&T – she heard him ask the barman after someone.

“Gosh, what a dishy boy, you should have asked him to join us,” Maddy giggled.

“You dirty old woman!” laughed Alice.

“Well, sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose and so on. It works for my husband, chasing skinny girls half his age!” Maddy retorted in a light tone, to show it was a joke, that nothing hurt.

“Sorry to disappoint,” replied Alice, “but a boy wearing that much foundation is not going to be interested in older women.”

“Yup,” agreed Mandy. “And mascara too.”

“Have to, a natural pale blond like that,” pointed out Alice, waving vaguely at her own eyes. They all burst out in hysterical laughter, the way good friends can over nothing.

“He is yummy, though” agreed Ceris, “ask him to join us. Buy him a drink. A bit of eye candy to stare at.”

“We have things to discuss. Professors to chat up. Not pretty gay boys to seduce,” snapped Mandy, ruining the mood completely.

“He’s leaving anyway,” Alice pointed out, as they watched him storm out of the bar, shoving something in his back pocket as he did. For a second Mandy thought she saw the glint of Thames Valley CID ident before the small wallet case was back in the pocket, but she breathed out, calming herself. She was getting paranoid in her old age, she decided.

*

James Hathaway entered the Communion. The last time he’d been here had been with Zoe Kenneth. He paused, centring himself, pushing down bad memories. A long time ago, but still the occasional target of gossip or comment. The butt of office jokes in a quiet period, when all DCs were bored and restless. He’d have thought the whole Mortmaigne business would have been seized upon, but instead everyone danced around it. The tabloids just wouldn’t leave it alone though, one even running with that fact that an investigating officer had been one of the many, many victims of the ‘paedo lord’, as the red tops christened Augustus Mortmaigne. If he was being accurate, he could have called the gleeful gossip of one and the studious avoiding of the other bullying. Instead, he ignored it, brushing off any suggestion it hurt every time Lewis wanted to tear his men off a peg or two about the gossip. The murder case had already come to court, both Hopkiss and Scarlet in prison. The sexual abuse had been handed on to DI Laxton. She didn’t want to just prosecute for Briony, she was pursuing as many victims as possible, stretching over 40, 45 years. But finally she’d accumulated as much as she could. You could say this for Angie, she was very thorough. And gentle. She couldn’t have been more patient and kind, taking his statement, pulling out buried memories, things he’d taught himself never, ever to remember.

He shuddered now, biting down all kinds of painful memories, and scanned the club, looking for Jonjo. He walked past a tall, well built man, taller than him. Something about the man suggested he wasn’t English. Hathaway didn’t mean to look back as the man checked him out, but somehow he did. All thoughts of the foreigner were driven out of his head as he saw Jonjo.

Friends, both male and female, surrounded Jonjo. Two blonde women, who looked like sisters but who were in fact narcissistic lovers who dressed alike for a kick, and happened to be two of Jonjo’s best friends. Hathaway didn’t even recognise anyone else. Two men gave him appraising looks as he came up to them. Since Will’s death, his father ran a gay night the last Friday of each month, ‘the Will McEwan memorial night,’ those in the know called it.

“Jonjo. Hi. I’ve been trying to call you..”

Jonjo was more than a little drunk. “I know,” he laughed. “Well don’t tell me, you’ve finally come out to yourself. A little late in the day, don’t you think?”

“No! Yes! You don’t understand...”

“Too late for us James. Far too late. If you need help getting over that Catholic guilt of yours, try the Samaritans,” he snorted, very drunk. Perhaps in the morning he’d regret his cruelty. He turned his back. James grabbed his arm, desperate. The friends watched, interested, drunk, laughing.

“No! You don’t understand, it’s not just that, it’s something... I don’t know...”

“What?” interrupted Jonjo. “That you’re in love with your boss, old enough to be your father? Bit obvious, James, saw that the first moment I saw you with him.” With that he walked away, followed by his friends, all laughing in the over the top way you do when you’ve had too much to drink

Hathaway stood there, on the edge of the dance floor, stunned, hands on his head, trying desperately to keep control. Was it really that obvious? If it was, who else had noticed. Is that why Hooper and Davis sniggered at him behind his back, set him up for increasing cruel practical jokes. Feeling impossible to bite down some intense emotional reaction, he turned to run out of the club, not noticing he was followed.

“Hey. Hey, my friend. Stop.” The foreign man who had appeared to check him out stopped him by grabbing hold of his arm. “You look sad, er, I mean upset? You need tea. Good, strong, sweet tea.”

“Sorry, don’t drink tea.”

“My friend, you are safe.” He pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket and lit Hathaway’s cigarette. “I come to Oxford sometimes. I need to talk, to make my English better, yes? You have row with boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, someone you want to be boyfriend? I don’t know, but you are ... Shocked? Is that the word? You need tea. Good, sweet Russian tea. I know the place. You tell me your problems, I make better English, I go back to Russia, I know not your life, your friends. We talk, hey? Talking is good with friends. I think sometimes you English, you do not know this, yes?”

“Where? Where do we get this Russian tea?”

“We get bus. To park and ride. Afterwards, I drive you home maybe, or I put you on bus, or..?”

“I’m telling you now, there’s definitely no or! Tea and English conversation, that’s okay, maybe. Isn’t being gay illegal in Russia?”

“Yes, and the Mother Church, she hates it too.”

Hathaway snorted. “Not just in Russia!”

*

Seb Charles had found himself, after all , with the four older women. Not that they were old, of course, far younger than him, but beyond his interest. However, a chance remark regarding Dickens had led to a pleasant evening discussing English literature and a few drinks bought for him. Far more than he usually imbibed, so that when he got up to leave he stumbled.

“Hey, be careful there,” the Manchester woman said, catching him. “I think we’d better see you home.”

“Thank you Mandy, that would be charming.”

*

Sergei and Hathaway walked down the High, heading for the bus stops on St. Aldates. Full of red wine and emotion, Hathaway had linked arms with his Russian companion, feeing quite safe. He seemed to be an old fashioned gentleman; perhaps he’d come to the nightclub out of curiosity alone. Something so open couldn’t exist in Russia. He was charming, his accent, his gentle humour, his comments on English life, his patience on whether Hathaway would talk about the scene in the club or not.

Laughing at one of Sergei’s many wry jokes, looking at him rather than where he was going, Hathaway stumbled into a tall woman with cascades of curly brown hair.

“Sorry.”

“We must stop meeting like this,” she laughed. Hathaway realised it was the same woman he’d bumped into in the pub.

“Hands off ladies,” Sergei said, “I found him first. Is he not pretty?”

“I said no ‘or’, only tea,” snapped Hathaway.

“Yes, yes,” agreed Sergei mildly.

They walked on. Mandy stared after them thoughtfully.

Alice touched her arm lightly. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, perhaps a work thing. Forget it.”

“Well, that didn’t work,” said Ceris. “What do we do now?”

*

The place for Russian tea was little more than a shack, a small hut of a cafe serving Russian, Polish and greasy English all day breakfast, on the end of a truck park, 10 minutes walk from the actual park and ride. On the bus, for reasons Hathaway couldn’t now figure out, he’d poured out his struggles with his sexuality and his Catholism, how he tried to be happy alone and celibate, how he’d just been happy to work with his boss, that was, until his boss seemed to come out of his lonely widower mode and start dating. If he was surprised by Sergei asking if he was still a virgin, he didn’t show it.

When they got there it was obvious that the girl serving knew Sergei. They flirted in Russian, although she was Polish, then Sergei turned to Hathaway.

“Forgive me James, but maybe you like to wash your face. Your eyes, you have cried, your make up, it run, not good, hey? Good make up, people they don’t see, messy make up, makes for men to want to... um, queer bash? That is how you say? This a place of rough straight men. Anya says you can use staff bathroom, yes? I get tea. Proper Russian tea from samovar. No milk like you English, just lots of sugar. Or Polish coffee, maybe?”

“Tea will be fine, thanks.” Hathaway said as he followed Anya to a toilet behind the kitchen. Its hygiene was somewhat lacking, but he availed himself of the facility and than splashed lots of cold water on his face before returning to the cafe.

Meanwhile Sergei had found a table and Anya brought the tea. He put three sugars in Hathaway’s tea glass, before fishing something out of his pocket. Checking Anya was busy with another customer he emptied a sachet of powder into the glass, mixed it with the sugar and returned the crumbled paper to his pocket. From his jacket pocket his took a hip flask and put in a splash of vodka to dissolve both drug and sugar, poured on the brewed tea and stirred vigorously. He was preparing his own tea more traditionally as Hathaway sat down.

“I have poured your tea, James,” he said, draining his own tea glass in one go. Hathaway did likewise, almost choking.

“Vodka?” he gasped.

“Perhaps. A little,” said Sergei, making a small gesture with finger and thumb, raising his glass and winking. “I did say Russian tea,” he said with a smile, emphasising the word Russian. “Now James, tell me. What will you do about your boss, hey?”

*

Hobson and Lewis walked down the steps at Covent Garden, laughing.

“Good?” asked Lewis.

“Well, I would have preferred Glynbourne.”

“So would I. And your choice of hotel sounded good. Fancy a drink?”

“You know, I could murder a Chinese. I know its hardly romantic, but...”

“Laura...” Lewis began. Dr. Hobson caught the warning sound of his voice. She looked distraught, Lewis noticed. He smiled. “Chinese sounds good. I’m starved. I’ve eaten nothing since lunch.”

“Good, I know just the place.”

Once at their table, Lewis tried again. “Laura, we are here as just friends, you do know that?”

“Oh, well, I did hope...”

“I like you Laura. I like you a lot. As friends. I value our friendship a lot, but...”

“I know a brush off when I...”

“No! It’s not like that.”

“I know. Val. But don’t you think enough years have...” Hobson stopped herself at the sight of Lewis’ stricken face. “I’m sorry.”

Lewis sighed and rubbed his eye. “When Val died maybe I went a little crazy. No. I know I did. And I said to myself that I’d never love another woman, ever. Then over the years...”

“Robbie?”

“Well, I tried dating and that, but I was right, however crazy, I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love with another woman.”

“Robbie, our friendship matters to me. Don’t think it’ll stop because...Well, you’re lonely, and so I am I, sometimes, and I like you. You’re kind. Thoughtful. Sweet.” Lewis snorted in disgust at ‘sweet’. “What I’m saying is you can trust me, you’re not breaking my heart. What? What is it? ”

“Well, without contradicting my first statement, I have fallen in love. Quite sometime ago, probably, only I was too blind to see.”

“If the two statements don’t contradict...”

“Yes?”

“Then you’re in love with a man?”

“Yeah.”

“James?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh God. Robbie.”

“This is in confidence, mind.”

“Of course it is.”

They sat in silence, hands still held lightly across the table. Finally Hobson broke the silence.

“What are you going to do?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

*

Ayesha couldn’t sleep. Maryam had given up her bed and was asleep on the floor in her sleeping bag. None of her other friends would have a sleeping bag, but then Maryam wasn’t your average Muslim girl. She’d only been one for four months, before that she’d been a wild festival going hippie chick. Carefully, so not as to wake her friend, Ayesha climbed out of bed and looked out of the window. Four women, in their forties or fifties were walking away form the Porter’s Lodge. Three were very stylish, the fourth, a kind of hippy chic, she supposed. Perhaps they were lost, asking for directions?

*

Hand in hand Hobson and Lewis ran down the platform at Paddington, hopefully trying to reach the fast accelerating train. It was hopeless. They ground to a hold, laughing, Dr. Hobson bent double with a stitch and puffing like an old steam train herself.

“We better get ourselves over to Victoria for the Tube,” Lewis said practically, “though God knows we won’t be home ‘til gone four.”

“We’ll go to Marble Arch. It’s nearer. The Oxford Tube and the Esspress stop there. I always get the Tube when I need to shop in Oxford Street. Faster and easier than the train.”

“Aye. And full of rowdy students and backpackers. Come on then, we better get going.”

*

Sergei walked James across the car parks to the bus terminus. James was beginning to regret declining the offer of a lift. He must have drunk far more than he’d realised, although apart from a glass of wine before he came out and the vodka in the tea just now he didn’t think he’d drunk anything that day yet he was feeling very wobbly. In fact all he wanted to do was sleep. He started to feel dizzy and began to worry how he’d get home. Should he call a taxi? He started to stagger and stumbled in a woman walking away from the bus. She caught hold of him.

“Careful there lad. Oh, its you again. This really is becoming a habit.”

James giggled nervously. “Not deliberately. I’m sorry.” The world seemed to be going fuzzy at the edges and he seemed to be hearing everything from a long way, like down a tunnel. He felt the woman let go as Sergei caught him. Her friends called to her and she walked away, but when she reached them turned back thoughtfully. She said something to them and walked back towards him and Sergei. As far as James knew she never made it. The world went from fuzzy and muffled to black and silent. He knew or remembered nothing else.


	2. CHAPTER TWO: EARLY HOURS, SATURDAY MORNING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hathaway wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic.

Birds were singing. The ground was rough, prickly, damp and cold underneath him. He couldn’t feel his clothes. James opened his eyes to see a dawn sky streaked with pink and green leaves. Trees? Bushes? Apart from the birds, and a gentle breeze stirring the leaves and brushing his body there was no sound. He sat up, panicked and afraid. He was indeed naked, but his clothes were right next to him. He grabbed his pants and tee shirt immediately, pulling them on with haste, ignoring the dreadful shooting pain inside, in his lower back, in his legs. He bit his lip, but it was no good, tears came any way. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid idiot! Once he’d got himself decently covered he fumbled for his cigarettes. They were gone. He began to check his pockets. No phone, no wallet, no house keys and

“No! no no no no!”

His badge was gone!

He curled up in a ball, tightly hugging his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth, letting his tears come. How could he have been so stupid? How? How?

Having no idea where he was, what he was going to do, or even really what had happened to him, although he had a very clear idea, he started walking with the vague idea if he got to Robbie Lewis’ house everything would be fine. He could be told what to do and where to go. And how to feel.

As he limped out of the lay-by he realised he was probably on the Marsden Ferry Road, probably by the allotments there.

A taxi slowed, keeping pace with him as he walked slowly and painfully along, becoming more and more aware with each step that he was probably bleeding.

“You alright mate?”

“Um.” James hugged himself tighter, looking carefully ahead.

“Can I take you somewhere? Police maybe? Or home.”

“I don’t have any money. He took my wallet. And my keys, if it comes to that. I can’t get home. I thought, my boss, maybe...” He was ashamed of himself as he burst into tears once more.

The taxi stopped and the door slammed. An Asian man, almost as fat as he was wide, with curly short hair and glasses came up to him. “Come on mate, you’ve been mugged. Let me take you to the police.” James shrank back, obviously afraid. “Hey hey, mate. Chill. I’m the good Samaritan, right? The one the prophet Jesus talks about, eh? You a Christian? I learnt tonight most English ain’t anything.”

“Catholic,” James mumbled.

“So you know all about Jesus and love your neighbour. Samaritans and Jews. Muslims and Christians. I’m the good Samaritan, right?”

James stopped trying to walk away and looked at his maybe rescuer. “Good Muslim, do you mean? I was trying to get to my boss.”

“Look mate, I ain’t stupid. I can see you’ve been more than mugged. Let me take you to the police, or the John Radcliffe, init? They can help, get the police to you. Bastard who did this gotta be caught, ain’t he?”

James snorted an ironic, desperate, brief laugh. “I can’t go to the police.”

“Don’t be ashamed mate. Ain’t your fault, now is it?”

“You don’t understand!” James snapped, voice on the edge of hysteria. “I am a policeman. I can’t go in as a... as a rape victim, I’ll never live it down, they’ll never stop... I thought if I got to my boss, to my Inspector, he’d ... Oh! I don’t know. Sort it out for me.”

“Then get in the back, Mr. Detective, I’ll take you to your boss. You just tell me where.”

“I don’t have any...”

“I don’t want your money. This is for Allah. He’ll pay me.”

James started to weep, tears just pouring our of him. “God bless you,” he said, climbing painfully into the cab.

“God, Allah, same thing. And He will, don’t you worry. My boss won’t, but let’s get you to yours. Where we going then?”

*

A cab was pulling away from Lewis’ block of flats as his and Hobson’s pulled up. Subconsciously Lewis noted it and filed it as odd.

“Well, thanks, you know, for a lovely evening.”

Hobson smiled. “You’re welcome. Truly.”

“I can trust you , with you know? It was in the strictest confidence.”

“I know that. Of course you can. Trust me, I mean. What are you going to do now?”

“Sleep.”

“No, I mean, about James?”

“I know.”

“Well?”

“About James? God knows. Its hardly straight forward. Even if I finally get my head around fancying.. well, you know...”

“A man?” supplied Hobson. “He’s very fanciable.”

Lewis sighed. “Yes. And very messed up.”

“You’d look after him.”

“He comes with a lot of baggage. Not just his whole Catholic guilt trip thing, but you know, his childhood. Plus I think this celibate thing...”

“Yes?”

“I get the feeling he’s always been celibate. That he’s, you know... a virgin.”

“Not since he was about six,” Hobson said darkly. “That’s the baggage.”

“Bloody hell Laura, that doesn’t count. Not in my book. It doesn’t count until consent is given.”

“Sorry. Yes. You’re right. Well, it still was a lovely night. Apart from the snoring old man on the coach!”

“I thought we’d never get home!” Lewis snorted.

“I counted the ways I could kill him silently and unobtrusively.”

“The joys of being a pathologist. I’d have had to arrest you. Good night Laura.”

Lewis started to climb out when on impulse Hobson leaned across and kissed him full on the mouth, a sad, chaste kiss, full of promise of what might have been. He smiled at her sadly. “Good luck Robbie,” Hobson said, smiling equally sadly. “Sleep well.”

*  
As Lewis opened the door of the stair well and stepped onto his landing he thought he saw a bundle of something on his doorstep, but as he got closer he realized it was a person. He slowly and carefully began to step forward, making no sudden movements. Whoever it was appeared to be asleep. As he came even closer he recognised the curled up figure as James Hathaway. In seconds Lewis had run to his doorstep, keys out ready.

“James? James!”

James looked up with an uncertain, unfocused gaze. The makings of a black eye and swollen lip on the left side of his face were beginning to appear, almost joined by an equally painfully looking cheek. There appeared to be finger bruising and scratches on the right side. More finger bruising and – dear God! – ‘love’ bites on his neck. Lewis took all this in in an instance, instinctively putting his hand out to touch, to comfort, but checked his impulse.

“James?”

“Sir?” His voice wobbled, his gaze also. Drink? Drugs?

“Let’s get you inside, then you can tell me what’s happened.”

Lewis stood up to open the door but James grabbed his arm. “Sorry. I’m sorry Sir. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. When I woke up, it had gone. My phone, I mean. And my money. And my...” he began to shake, tears pouring down his face. He didn’t even seem aware of them.

“Come on.” Lewis helped him to his feet and took him inside, leading him through to the sofa.

“James, tell me. Who did this to you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, well maybe I can guess. I only drank tea with him and then I woke up. Somewhere different. He took everything, my keys and... I met this guy and he was kind. I thought he was kind. But he must have put something in my tea and when I woke up...”

Lewis put his hands over James’ and stared in to his eyes. “Ssh. Just tell me. Have you been raped?”

“I can’t remember anything! How do I know?” James shouted angrily, then he looked down. “I think so,” he mumbled, “more than once, I can taste – in my mouth, I mean. And , and I’m bleeding.” This last bit was whispered so low Lewis had to strain to catch it. “Sorry Sir. I’m so sorry. I was stupid.”

“This isn’t your fault, you can get that in your thick skull. I’m going to have to take you into the rape suite, they have doctors there, unless..? How badly are you bleeding James?”

“Not much. When I move. I think I’d be dead by now if it were my main artery. There was no blood where I woke up, it started when I started walking.” He stared appealingly into Lewis’ eyes. “Sir, I know this has to be reported, but I thought you could take my statement and...”

“Statement, yes, but I’m not qualified. James, we need forensics, bloods. It sounds as if this bastard put something in your tea .”

“Couldn’t Dr. Hobson..?”

“By the book James.”

“Sir.” He sounded normal, but he began to shake so badly Lewis just reached out to hold him, pulling him into a tight embrace and letting the boy sob his heart out, continually apologising.

After a few moments Lewis began to pull himself away, intending to reach for the phone. James frantically pressing his mouth to his caught him completely off guard. Before he could stop himself he was responding to the kiss passionately, desperately. He broke away, suddenly, angry with himself. What was he doing?

“Sorry Sir. Sorry sorry sorry...” He looked afraid, as if he expected to be hit. “I just wanted to take the taste away, to... Sorry.”

Gently, so very gently, Lewis held James’ face. “Listen to me James, listen carefully. I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with myself. Now listen, please listen, I’m going to say this just one time. I won’t take advantage of you when you’re in such a vulnerable state.”

“What?”

Lewis pulled away and pulled his phone from his pocket.

“This is DI Lewis. Put me through to the rape suite. Thanks, I’ll hold.

“Hello. Who’s that? Oh, hi Julie. Busy there tonight? I’ll hold, yeah.

“Hello Sergeant Ramsy, DI Lewis. I have a victim, a male victim, of drug assisted rape I need to bring in.

“Yes, pretty bad way.

“No. No memory, and yes, stuff taken.

“What? Russian?”

James, staring silently from the sofa, nodded.

“Apparently so.

“What? I’ll ask him.” Lewis silenced his phone. “She wants to know if anything was taken apart from phone, keys and wallet.”

“My cigarettes.”

“His cigarettes.”

“Oh. I see.” Lewis stared pointedly. “Anything personal, something that identifies you in a private way?”

James stared, biting his thumbnail, then looked down. “My badge Sir.”

“Hello. The thing is Sergeant; your discretion is needed here. The victim, well, he’s my...”

Lewis held the phone from his ear as the squealed response was so loud James could hear it, his own name shrieked out in disbelief .

“Yes Sergeant, I’m still here. It’s his badge, also gone.

“Yes, police issue phone.

“This isn’t fantastic, Sergeant, it’s bloody...

“Okay, I hear you, but it still isn’t fantastic to James, is it?

“Yes. I’ll bring him in now.” Lewis pocketed his phone and helped James to his feet. “Apparently these Russian guys have been wanted for sometime.”

“More than one?” James’ voice trembled. Lewis regretted his words instantly.

*

The unit seemed incredibly busy and full of staff when they arrived, but as far as Lewis could tell there were no other victims in. They were met at the door and James was escorted by both a uniformed woman PC and DS Ramsy, whom Lewis had never met. She always worked nights, apparently. A relatively young woman, mixed race with coffee coloured skin peppered with freckles and afro hair not quite brown, not quite blonde, pulled off her face with a scarf. The duty medic was waiting by the door. Red carpet treatment for DS Hathaway it seemed.

Lewis stood uncertainly in the corridor, feeling a fifth wheel. He supposed he was here as friend of the victim rather than a police officer anyway. He yawned and rubbed his eyes and was just about to go in search of PC Julie Davis, wife of his own DC Nick Davis, and ask about coffee. She ran the admin in this place the two weekend nights and was on front desk in Didcot in the week. It was where they lived. DC Davis was supposed to be in charge of the kid’s weekends, but he never had problems with overtime if he was needed. They had three children, so Lewis had no idea how they juggled childcare.

Just as he turned he was almost knocked over as a wild, blond whirlwind of a woman came flying down the corridor from the main door, calling out for DS Ramsy as she did so.

“Taking the victim’s statement, Ma’am,” someone called as she turned to say sorry and someone else, probably Julie, called out that DS Dexter had been informed and was on her way.

DI Angie Laxton took on board both pieces of information but was stunned by the fact the supposed friend or boyfriend of the victim was Robbie Lewis.

“Robbie! Did you bring us our victim? How did you...” she tailed away. “Come in my office, please. Julie,” she called out, “coffee for DI Lewis now. “ She gestured to a chair and Lewis sat down. Laxton perched on her desk. The office was cramped, small, barely room for the desk and three chairs.

“Tell me what’s going on? I can sense this is big.”

“Okay, fine. But first you tell me who the victim is, how come you’re bringing him in. Not.. not your son?”

“My son’s in Australia, and he’s fine. As far as I know. He sends the occasional e-mail and post card. Did no-one tell you?”

“Its DS Hathaway, isn’t it?”

Lewis nodded slowly. Before Laxton could respond Julie Davies came in with coffee and biscuits. “Just to let you know Ma’am. We’ve got tech tracking the phone. Somewhere in Southampton. Hopefully we’ll pick them up before they get on the ferry.”

Laxton smiled. “Thanks Julie.” Just as Julie was about to close the door Ramsy pushed past.

“Ma’am. We’ve taken the statement, very thorough. He remembers nothing, obviously, but good description and details up to blacking out and waking up. Woke up in the lay-by outside Marsden Ferry allotments. Sent SOCOs out there now.” Ramsy turned to Lewis. “Sir.”

“The victim’s Hathaway, isn’t it?” Laxton looked pointedly from Ramsy to Lewis. Lewis nodded again, and looked away as Laxton stared angrily at Ramsy, who looked down. “Hell, Terri, you should have told me.”

“Intended to Ma’am. Bit rushed, you know, onto tech and SOCO and...”

“Good work sergeant.”

“Doc’s got good forensics too, and we are so early there are clear signs of the drug in the bloods and urine, she thinks. Know more later. Ma’am,” she nodded to Lewis, “Sir.” She left, closing the door.

“Good team you’ve got.”

“And a good sergeant you’ve got, with an eye for detail,” Laxton said, glancing down at her copy of Hathaway’s statement. “But God, Robbie, the Mortmaigne case comes to court in three weeks. I’ll get him registered on the counselling programme, but he needs more than rape crisis. He’s strong, but this could tip him over the edge.”

“He’ll cope.”

“Well, your faith in him is touching, but do you really think so? You don’t know what this Russian psycho does, and at the moment he doesn’t remember. I’m telling you now, this is far worse than anything he went through as a kid.”

“He’s an adult now, not a child. He’ll be fine.”

“Children are resilient, they live in the moment and, God forgive me for saying so, in his own sick way that bastard loved those kids, James included. This Russian...”

Robbie rubbed his eye and picked up his coffee, it was far too sweet for his liking, but he supposed it was for shock or something. “Angie, why don’t you start from the beginning. I can tell this is something big.”

Angie sighed and picked up her own coffee. “For nearly five years we’ve had a pattern of guys meeting a Russian, good English, personable, in gay bars and clubs. Everything seems okay, then they wake up. They’re normally injured in some way, but not often as bad as James,” Angie picked up the medical report Ramsy had left on her desk. “His injuries are more consistent with the Polish pattern...”

“What?”

“In Poland younger men and boys are abducted and raped and tortured. Two have been killed. Through Germany, France and England, in several cities, the pick up and drugs approach is used. But Interpol have connected them years ago. They follow a pattern, a long distant lorry route from somewhere in Russia. This is a team effort, with several British CIDs, Europol and Interpol, French, German and Polish police, and immigration, who think these guys are people trafficking as well. But we’ve nailed them. We’ll get to try them. No-one can take this away from us, and we have the most comprehensive and equalitarian rape legislation, so we’re gonna send these bastards down for a long time.”

“Angie, I can appreciate the euphoria of a result like this, but just remember whose phone you’re tracking, whose eye for detail is giving you comprehensive evidence and...Oh bloody bloody hell!” Lewis broke off, rubbed his eye and looked down.

“I’m sorry. And I am concerned for James. I can offer counselling, but what more can I do? I can’t undo it.”

“I know. Sorry. And I can see for your team it’s a good result. Angie,” Lewis sighed deeply. “What I say next, can it stay between you and me?”

“What? What is it?”

“I’m going to have to do a swab.”

“What?” Laxton could not disguise her surprise.

“You’ll probably need a DNA sample from me. For elimination purposes.”

Angie Laxton’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “Why? Are you sure?”

“He kissed me, okay?”

Her eyebrows even further. “Robbie! You sly old...”

“No! He was drugged, and he kissed me, muttering something about taking the taste away.”

“Well, a little kiss wouldn’t really mess things up. Well, you’d have to go at it, tongues, saliva exchange to bother with wanting to eliminate yourself from our inquires, as it were.” Laxton caught sight of DI Lewis’ face. “Oh. Well, better if I get you the kit and you do it yourself. And, no, your name won’t go on the sample, although the very fact of that will be seen as highly suspect. Maybe you want to wait and see how much Hathaway’s mouth swabs pick up? But DI Lewis, you dirty old man, you kissed back!” Laxton couldn’t help herself, Lewis’ stricken face invited teasing.

“I don’t think this is going to stay in this room, is it?”

“No you can trust me,” laughed Laxton. She fought to compose herself . “Sorry. Of course I won’t spread gossip about your office romance.”

“There is no ‘office romance’. The boy just kissed me, upset and drugged and...”

“And you snogged him back?”

“Its been a long time.”

“And you’re straight?”

“Probably.”

“Oh I love that answer Robbie. Me, I happily know I’m gay, no probably about it.”

“Lucky you”

“As for the lovely James Hathaway, most of my unattached and some of the attached ones in my team fancy him rotten. And they notice things.”

“Like what?”

“Like Fiona McKendrick and he never got past holding hands, that they were both so far in the closet it was pathetic.”

“Is this what you do when not picking through the misery of sex crimes, watch the sex lives of everyone at Kidlington..”

“Yeah, “ laughed Laxton, “look at the positive, deal with the negative.”

Lewis scratched his face, rubbed his eye and breathed out. “And what else do your DSs and DCs notice?”

“That your sergeant makes big cow eyes at you. Moonstruck. Completely besotted. Creeping out of the closet by degrees.”

“Its the Catholic guilt, you know.”

“It’s his childhood, more, I think. Can’t you order him to have counselling?”

“We’re suddenly serious, are we. No more gossip? I can’t push it Angie, he’ll just quit, and he’s a too good a detective to lose.”

“Well, we’ll lose him anyway if he cracks up, won’t we?”

They sat in silence and drank their cold coffees. Lewis was just about to ask about the ‘cow’s eyes’ when there was a knock on the door. It was the duty medic and James Hathaway, in borrowed clothes, forensics having been sent his.

“Angie, I’ve patched him up best I can and phoned the JR. They want to keep him in for a few hours of observations, the drugs, you know, and... Oh. DI Lewis. You’re still here. Perhaps you can take the sergeant to the hospital.”

“My pleasure.” Lewis stood up and gave Laxton a meaningful look. “Inspector. Doctor. Come on James.”

“Sir.” Hathaway stared back at the open door of the office as they walked down the corridor, trying and failing to guess at the reasons behind the tensions he so obviously detected.

“Its Robbie. Bloody hell, man, I’m taking you to hospital as a friend, you’re not on duty.”

James struggled to keep up with the furious Lewis. In the car he looked at his boss with appealing eyes. “Sir? I mean Robbie,” he hastily corrected himself, confused by the black fury in Lewis’ eyes. “Have I made you angry? What did I do?”

“Nothing James. I’m not angry with you, just every bloody one else!”

“Oh.” James was silent for a while, but as they approached the JR he whispered, “I knew that there would be gossip.”


	3. CHAPTER THREE: LUNCHTIME, SATURDAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A body is discovered at Lady Julian College and an arrest is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

“And so Ma’am, they were picked up by Southampton uniform at 7:45 this morning. They’re in the custody suite now. We need a translator for one, but the other insists he’s good at English.”

“I know just the person, she assisted Robbie Lewis just under a year ago. Very good. A charming woman, too.”

“Oh, good Ma’am. The lorry’s at Southampton, but we’ve sent a team of our forensics to assist their CID. Picking it apart as we speak Ma’am. The ba... the personal item of our victim was in the cab, in a box, along with all the other listed items from all the previous victims, plus many, many more. You know photos of kids and lovers and parents, id bracelets, engraved rings, lucky charms and crucifixes... Obviously now they’re in custody everybody from Gdansk to Newcastle wants a piece of them, but we have the best forensics.”

“Yes. Why did he come forward so soon? Its not like..?” Innocent stopped herself. How did she phrase it without sounding too judgemental? Most men picked up had been looking for someone, and had gone willing with the personable Russian. What they hadn’t agreed to was to be drugged and passed over to a second man with violent tastes.

“Not in his character, Ma’am,” Laxton butted in.

“What wasn’t?”

“One night stands. Being picked up. Even going clubbing. He was there looking for someone – a friend,” Laxton added hurriedly, watching Innocent’s face. “Besides, he was much more badly injured than normal.”

“Why?”

“Can’t account for it Ma’am. We got Ha.. the victim in so early the Rohypnol was still in his system. We have tyre marks where he woke up that I bet will match their truck. And of course, lots of DNA from the victim’s person, including seminal fluid from both of them.”

“Again, not the usual MO,” Innocent interrupted.

“Perhaps the one who procures the victims ‘liked’ Ja... the victim,” Laxton made speech quotations around ‘liked’ with her fingers in the air. Really, she was so tired; She really should just get it over with and tell the Chief Super that the victim was her precious DS Hathaway. Everyone knew Jean Innocent had a soft spot for Hathaway, he’d got off with the lightest of reprimands following some incident involving lying during an investigation, and since Crevecoeur she practically babied him. Well, Laxton had a tendency to feel a little protective of him herself. She’d taken the statement, after all.

“Good work Angie. A result. And it looks good for us in Thames Valley, that we did this alone. We got lucky though, that’s all. We’ve never been able to trace a stolen phone before, even with all the tech of Interpol behind us. They normally dump the sim.”

“The phone had a second GPS, as well as a smart sim, which they’d not dumped yet.”

“A wealthy as well as clever young man then.”

“Clever Ma’am?”

“Well, to have the presence of mind to get to us as soon as he woke up, not worrying about the shame and embarrassment victims, especially male victims go through. I’m not sure if I woke up miles from anywhere with no memory but the physical evidence on me I’d go to the police straight away.”

“Not really wealthy Ma’am, no, and not technically his phone, and I think he was virtually ordered here by his boss. His first instinct had been to go to him.”

“Still, lucky for us.”

“No Ma’am, not lucky, no, not at all Ma’am.” Laxton kept her voice passive and face neutral.

Innocent stared up at Laxton. “Tell me.”

“Ma’am.”

“Who?”

Laxton sighed deeply. She knew she was bringing very bad news. She hated that, the worse part of when she’d been in uniform. “DS James Hathaway, Ma’am.”

Innocent took out her earrings slowly, one by one as she spoke. “Oh. My. God.” She was silent for a few minutes, deep in thought. She was about to speak, though what exactly she would have said, she wasn’t sure, when the phone rang. She listened intently for a few moments, and then looked up before speaking. Laxton mouthed ‘shall I go’ and Jean Innocent nodded.

As she walked out Laxton could hear Innocent in deep discussion concerning a murder. As she opened the door, Innocent called her. She looked back.

“Ma’am?”

Innocent had her hand over the phone. “Full report on my desk, as soon as possible. Is Hathaway going to be fit for work?”

“Couldn’t say Ma’am. Battered and in pain, but probably more useful now than when his memory returns.”

“Thanks.”

*

Lewis had finally found a parking space, the wrong car park, about as far away from where Hathaway’s ward was as possible, when the phone rang. He was ragged with exhaustion and stress, and driving around the bloody JR for half an hour had been the final straw. At 6am it had been relatively easy to park, but at almost 2pm, next to impossible. He’d had possibly three hours sleep in the last 36, snatched uncomfortably in the chair besides Hathaway’s hospital bed. The nurse had kicked him out just before the doctor was due on his or her rounds. Lewis had gone home to grab a quick shower and change before using the time to go round to Hathaway’s place, break in unobtrusively with his credit card, fetch spare keys, clean clothes, cigarettes, and on impulse, a very battered, elderly small stuffed panda he’d found in the bedside drawer, along with James’ guitar. His son had taken to carrying his old teddy bear with him in a sports bag, and was now travelling with him on the other side of the world. The toy, abandoned when he’d started school, had become, quietly and secretly, a charm against evil following Val’s death. Sometimes he felt so guilty that by going to pieces so much he’d never really been there for his children. They may have been young adults, but they had lost a mother as much as he had lost a wife. Or more so. A mother is irreplaceable. They had needed a father, but they’d got a maudlin, selfish drunk. He’d literally driven his son to the other side of the world!

Sighing deeply, Lewis answered the phone. It was Innocent.

“Ma’am.”

“Robbie. Where are you?”

“A car park at the John Radcliffe.”

“And James? Is he with you? How is he?”

“I guess you’ve been informed Ma’am. He was asleep when I left him. I’m bringing him clean clothes. I’m still in the car, so as for how he is, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better Ma’am.”

“The thing is. We have a body. In Lady Julian-”

“The Counsellor’s college?”

“What?”

“Never mind Ma’am. She’s no longer there.”

“H’m. Well the pathologist and SOCOs are there now. Do you want it?”

“Are you giving me the choice Ma’am?”

“Well, considering...”

“Hathaway is my sergeant, not my – not family. Besides, it’ll do me good to throw myself into work. Real work, that is, not paperwork.”

“And James, too probably, providing he’s fit? I’ve asked Laxton for all the reports, but I’ve not had them yet.” Lewis could here the question in her tone.

“He’s a bit bruised Ma’am.”

“Shall I tell them you’re on your way, or give it to Grainger?”

“I’ll fetch James and either send him home in a taxi or we’ll both attend. Half an hour. An hour at most.”

“Fine. And Robbie?”

“Yes Ma’am?”

“Tell James. We have the bastards in custody.”

“Ma’am,” replied Lewis neutrally, not trusting himself to speak.

*

DC Hooper met Lewis at the porter’s lodge. A late Victorian building, done in soft yellow sandstone but with harsh Victorian red brick features at the corners and doorways and windows, set back from the High behind older, more traditional and well-known colleges. One side offered excellent views of Angel and Greyhound meadows and the river. Until 1998, Lady Julian had been an all female college, only allowing male tutors and dons from 1978, when challenged under new equality legislation designed to protect and improve female emancipation but tested by a querulous don, the indeed victim, and admitting male students from 1999 after the college’s long standing Master and Bursar (a combined role in a small, exclusive college), traditionally known as The Counsellor, but since 2002 for the first time since the college’s beginnings in the 1900s a man was in control, and was called the Master, like some of its older brother colleges. He had appointed a Bursar in a minor role. Lewis had not been at Lady Julian since 1988, just before the last Counsellor left. A particularly nasty case of serial killings of female students. For some reason Morse had not taken to the Counsellor and almost left the young Lewis in charge for all negotiation and interviewing. Now, as he stood in the Lodge, Lewis smiled at the memory of the two people – Morse and the Counsellor, both with razor sharp minds, at loggerheads. Hooper’s rude question brought him sharp out of his reverie.

“His nibs not with you, then?” Hooper asked, craning his neck to look at Lewis’ car, parked on double yellow lines near a bus stop.

“No,” Lewis replied, giving him a stern stare.

“Sir,” replied Hooper, a little puzzled, as he could see the back of a blond head, presumably Hathaway’s, moving in time to the music he could hear coming from his DI’s car. He gathered his thoughts. “Not a pretty site Sir. Blood and guts and brains all over the shop. But the place is clean, according to SOCO,” he explained as they crossed the quad. Inside, was much more cheap red brickwork. To the original designer and founder, Lady Julian had to blend in, but money too had been a consideration. “Through here Sir.” He indicated a narrow door leading to a spiralling stone staircase.

Professor Sebastian Charles had owned a house, a cottage in Wolvercote, but he had hardly used it. In fact, he’d been letting it to one of his many relatives. His two sisters, the only women he had any love and respect for, saving his nieces, both had many children, most of whom had married and reproduced themselves. His recently divorced niece and great niece were the cottage’s current occupants.

“When was the body found?” asked Lewis, as he followed Hooper down a narrow corridor.

“About 1:30 this afternoon Sir. His great nephew turned up to visit. WPC with him now Sir. Sweet tea and that for shock. Porter too. Porter took the nephew up to his room, and when they couldn’t get an answer, unlocked the door with the master key. Well, the rest you can guess at Sir.”

“Nothing touched?”

“Too grossed out. Porter puked in the doorway, but the nephew was in Iraq Sir. Presence of mind to shut door and phone police immediately.”

“But shocked you say?”

“Apparently a close family. His Granny’s a widow, and his Great Uncle more like a Granddad to him. Not grossed out but shocked like, upset, you know? This is it Sir.”

A uniform officer was about to hand Lewis a blue scene of crime suit when the senior SOCO called out from within the room, “Don’t need to bother with that Sir.”

“If you’re sure John. But why?” Lewis stepped into a room so far from the usual frenetic activity it was a little unnerving. The three SOCOs stood at the back of the room, looking more than a little bewildered. Their senior officer, the one who had called out, was saying something to Dr. Hobson as she packed up her bag. She frowned in response. As Lewis stood in the doorway, the photographer shouldered his bag, and with a muttered ‘excuse me sir’ pushed past and left.

Hobson stood up, bag now packed. “You’re a little late,” she snapped pointedly. Lewis was too tired to pick up on whether she was merely teasing him through curiosity or genuinely annoyed.

“Yes. Sorry.” Lewis rubbed his eye and yawned. “What have you got for me?”

“A very straightforward killing. Knife in the heart. Death would have been fairly instantaneous, seconds, a minute or two at the most. Been lying here ten? Twelve hours? Certainly not less and not much longer. ”This,” she indicated the mess at both ends of the torso, “was done either immediately after death, or as he was dying, in which case he’d had been dead immediately the head shot happened. Both caused by gun shots, two separate ones, inserted here,” she indicated her mouth, “and here,” she pointed to her bottom. “Know more after the PM.” She stood up. “Sick. Totally sick.”

“Is that your medical opinion doctor?”

“Get out of bed the wrong side today did we?”

“For your information doctor, I’ve not been to bed at all.”

Hobson, concerned, touched his elbow. “Robbie?”

“I’m okay. I was in the rape suite, and then the JR. Assisting DI Laxton with an ongoing case, you could say.”

“Oh. And where is the irrepressible Sergeant Hathaway today?”

Lewis wasn’t sure how to answer, but he didn’t need to. He heard Hobson let out a barely audible ‘ah’ and turned around. Hathaway stood in the doorway, staring at the body. He was the only one looking at the body. Everybody, but everybody, else was staring at his bruised face and his tense, awkward stance, belying the discomfort and pain in his lower body, and were taking in the lack of suit and tie, the casual, loose clothing of baggy cargos and tee shirts. Nobody spoke. The tension in the air of unasked questions and their connections to Lewis’ statement to Hobson thickened the air. Lewis knew he had to cut through the fog somehow. The best thing, he decided, was to pretend there wasn’t an audience. How he wished he’d insisted Hathaway had taken a taxi.

“James, I told you to wait in the car.” He knew he sounded like an annoyed parent rather than his boss, but that couldn’t be helped. He went on, knowing everyone was drinking in his every word, “You’re not supposed to be working today. The hospital said-”

“Yeah. But I thought I’d just see the body in situ. I’ll be back at work tomorrow. It’s a revenge killing, right? You can see that. Obvious, init?”

“Is it?” Lewis asked gently, feeling the eyes of four SOCOs, two uniform, Hooper and Hobson – particularly Hobson – switch their gaze to him. He knew that everyone had noticed the lack of Sir and the slide from crisp public school tones to the softer rural Oxfordshire English as much as the bruises, body language and clothes.

“Go back to the car James.”

“I just thought –“

“Now!” Lewis didn’t mean to roar like that, but God knew, he was tired!

Hathaway stiffened and visibly flinched. “Sir.” He turned tail and fled.

Hooper and Hobson spoke at once, while everyone else went back to standing around, morose and bored, and sulky, if you were a SOCO and there was a total absence of any forensic evidence at all, if someone, some expert, has come in after the murder and cleaned the room of everything at all, wearing a protection suit, gloves and overshoes. Not only could they find nothing regarding the murderer or murderers, there was not so much as a stray hair or fingerprint to suggest that Sebastian Charles had lived there for the past 22 years.

“Robbie-”

“Sir-”

Hobson deferred to Hooper with a nod of the head.

“Sir. Don’t be too hard on the boy. Chief Super told me you were fetching him from hospital and to cover. I let him in. Lodge called me to confirm he was with us. Didn’t have his badge, see, Sir.”

“If you knew he’d been in hospital why’d ya... Oh forget it! Hooper, I’m going home to sleep. I need to sleep or else I’ll be the one on a murdering rampage and you’ll be the first in line!”

“Sir?”

“Sorry Hooper. Bloody knackered. Hardly slept. No doubt you’ll hear all about it.”

“No Sir. I mean yes Sir. And Sir? I’ve got uniform getting lists of everyone who was in college last night and start taking statements. I can get to talk with those who knew him well – friends, family. Get a couple more DCs on overtime Sir, and we can start getting to know more about him, look for a motive.”

Lewis frankly could not hide his surprise. “Good work, Constable.” He turned and walked away. Hobson ran after him.

“Robbie?”

“Later Laura. Later!” She stood, offended and puzzled, watching Lewis walk down the stairs. Hooper came up behind her.

“I know this doctor. We all do.”

Hobson spun round, “What?”

“Innocent’s been in on a Saturday since way before we knew about this murder. Something to do with a serial gay rapist Laxton’s been after for five years. Apparently they got the latest victim in so early they’ve made an arrest. Her team’s high as kites with the result. But you know what I’m thinking, don’t you doctor?”

“Yes I do. So keep your fat mouth shut until you know!”

“You think it too,” Hooper replied angrily.

“Yes, but I hope to God we’re both wrong. Could have been in a car smash, for all we know.”

“You’re the pathologist, so you must know about cars that leave fist shaped bruises, finger bruising and bite marks.”

 

*

Lewis slammed the door so hard as he got in Hathaway winced and rocked with the car.

“I told you to stay put.”

“Sorry Sir, but I just thought –”

“Well. Don’t.”

“What? Not think Sir? Won’t that make –”

“Just shut up!”

“Sir.”

Silence as deep and as cold as the black void between galaxies ensued. The freezing, empty silence continued for some time as Lewis negotiated the Saturday shopper and early tourist traffic out of Oxford’s city centre. Finally, sighing, he shattered the ice.

“Tell me what I’m not seeing Sergeant. What is it none of us are seeing?”

“Sir?”

“Revenge, you said?”

“Yes Sir. The injuries. He’d been... Well, I think it’s revenge Sir.”

“Revenge for what Sergeant?”

Hathaway flinched inside at his DI’s formality. He may have no memory prior to waking up but he thought he was pretty clear about everything subsequent. He had blown it big time, for sure. Years of carefully hiding everything, every feeling and desire, hopelessly accepting every crumb of friendship and now it looked like even their tenuous friendship was lost. Best pretend he couldn’t remember the kiss for now. He had no idea how he’d come to do it, an act of desperation, perhaps? Best play this game as he always had, perfectly calm, in control and hidden.

Except he couldn’t, he wasn’t really operating at his best. Tired, in pain, with half his mind frantically searching for memories of what simply wasn’t there, of what had happened to him, and instead filling in the blanks with the worst possible imaginings, or rather, not imaginings but childhood memories, he was barely able to prevent himself curling into a foetal ball and sobbing. As for the other half of his mind, what wasn’t torturing on yet more childhood memories and fretting about the court case three weeks away, was fretting about gossip at work.

It was impossible not to let out a half choked back, swallowed sob as he replied to Lewis’ question. “Rape Sir. Or some form of sexual assault. Or –”

“Or sexual abuse, “ Lewis finished for him. “You saw that? Would that mean you had contemplated, at any time, something as violent as -?”

Hathaway interrupted, horrified. “No! No Sir. I would never –” He broke off, shocked that his DI could think him so disturbed, stunned that he’d even made the connection, and more than a little afraid Lewis had begun to drop references, however veiled, to his childhood at Crevecoeur.

“No James. I don’t think you would ever act on a violent impulse, but thoughts, thoughts of revenge, or punishment, maybe? You said it was obvious to you.”

Hathaway pointedly stared out of the passenger window, refusing to answer. Eventually he realised the obvious. He really wasn’t much of a detective today.

“We’re not going to my flat, Sir.”

“No. I packed your weekend bag. Did you really think I’d leave you on your own straight after being... assaulted.” The pause was there, obvious to Hathaway that Lewis didn’t even want to think the word, let alone say it. Suddenly Hathaway felt he’d misread the situation. Lewis wasn’t at all angry with him. Tired, yes, and angry with the men who’d done this to him, and probably feeling very protective of him. In a paternal sort of way, thought Hathaway gloomily, adding another nail to hope’s coffin. He realised he had to speak, to let some of what he was thinking out, and hope they could go on as normal and pretend the conversation had never happened.

“The thing is Sir, I don’t really remember Crevecoeur. I mean, I made myself forget. Things are different when you’re a child. You just forget, move on, play, watch TV, read, go to school. And then it happens again, and then you forget again. I mean, you don’t just sit there fretting and... Oh! I’m not making sense.”

“No. You are. Children live in the present, its something wonderful about childhood that’s precious. We shouldn’t lose it, but we do.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t feel fear, or pain, or cry myself to sleep, or have nightmares. Because I did. And then we left, when I was twelve, and I told myself to never think of it ever again, and until last year I didn’t. Not once.”

“Not consciously James, no, but what about when you slashed your wrist? Don’t tell me that was before you were twelve?”

Hathaway automatically covered his left wrist with his right hand. He hadn’t realised Lewis had noticed the scars. He was usually so very careful, wearing long sleeves, a wristband, a beaded bracelet, anything to cover up the faint, pale white streaks on his left wrist. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. When he opened them again he saw they were parked, in a bus lay-by in Summertown. An irate man banged on the window and gestured to the bus stop sign. Lewis flashed his badge through the windscreen and the man backed off, holding his hands before him in a placating gesture. Lewis made to open the door.

“And we’re so advanced in our investigation it’s led us to Summertown shops, has it Sir?”

“Yup. To Starbucks.”

“What?”

“I can’t drive and do intense discussions on three hours sleep. I need coffee.”

“Okay Sir.”

They climbed out of the car, to the curious stares of the people waiting for various buses.

“Probably they think I’m your suspect Sir.”

“Probably they do Sergeant. I put what looked suspiciously like a make up bag in your overnight bag. Think you can pretty yourself up tomorrow?” Lewis held the door open for Hathaway, smiling brightly. For one dizzy moment Hathaway thought perhaps Lewis was flirting with him.

“I could lay foundation on with a trowel but I’m never going to hide these bruises.” He froze, lost in dreadful speculation.

“James,” he was prompted gently. Standing stock still in a busy doorway is never a good idea. With Lewis’ hand firmly and gently in the small of his back he allowed himself to be steered to a soft chair in the window. Behind him, squashed together on two sofas a large mixed group of students giggled hysterically. It was probably relief, as they were all dolled up like a dog’s dinner of embarrassment, dressed for the examinations schools. Black skirt or trousers, white shirt or blouse, white ties for the boys, black half gowns, that is sub fusc or flappy bat’s wings, and flowers in their buttonholes. Pink carnations seemed to be a favourite.

Hathaway stared intently at them for a few second, before looking down and closing his eyes. He intently half prayed for and half willed them to go away. They were so noisy.

When Lewis returned bearing coffee, two paninis and two cupcakes, the group was beginning to disperse, much to Hathaway’s relief.

“Not hungry Sir.”

“Who says these are for you,” Lewis almost snapped, before taking a bite of cheese panini. Lewis continued to eat and drink coffee, silently and morosely while Hathaway sipped his latte and stared out of the window. He felt hurt and angry he’d been interrupted, that he’d just been about to open up about something important, that he needed someone, Lewis, to hear the unsaid words, to understand. He carried this huge, indefinable weight of guilt about Will. If he’d been honest with himself, accepting of himself, if he’d not run away to the seminary, if he’d...

He slammed his mug down, angry with himself. His faith had been that strong, he had truly believed he’d had a vocation. He’d even seen his childhood as a blessing, indicating a call to the celibate life. And his homosexuality too. After all, what other choice did he have, except to live a lie or to live in sin? The Bible didn’t really offer much in the way of compromise. And oh how comforting, to think Augustus was an abomination, vile in the sight of God. But he shouldn’t have pushed his own messed up choices and interpretations onto Will. Maybe last night was God’s punishment, maybe another prompt at celibacy, maybe...

James put his hands over his head, as if to block his own internal voice. Ridiculous, of course. He was inside his own head, not outside it. He felt his hands gently pulled away by warm, strong calloused ones.

“You okay?”

“No, not really.”

“Still want to talk. I’m sorry James, I had to stop and eat or drop. You’ve had more sleep than me, and if I’m to get us to my flat in one piece and not have us end up on Dr Hobson’s slab as a couple of RTAs I needed this.” Lewis indicated the debris of two demolished cheese panins and a chocolate cupcake. One strawberry pink cupcake sat alone on the plate. If a cupcake can stare up provocatively, this is what it did now to Hathaway. He swiped a finger full of glossy pink butter cream icing and licked it off his finger before speaking pedantically.

“They wouldn’t give our bodies to Hobson.”

Lewis stared as Hathaway licked another finger full of icing. Hathaway caught his gaze and hurriedly put his hands in his lap, acting for all the world like a guilty schoolboy.

Lewis sighed, although it sounded more like a huff. “Do you want to talk?”

“Not particularly. I did, but not now. And for your information, Sir, I did not slash my wrists.”

Lewis sighed again, this time expressing a deep sadness of understanding. He rubbed his eye and smiled gently. “Self-harmed then. I think it proves my point. You never really forgot. Laxton said your statement was very thorough.” In point of fact, Laxton had let Lewis read it, as it was in someway a shared investigation – Lewis had made the connection between Briony, the Summerhouse and all the photos in the Summerhouse – and anyway, she knew she’d have been desperate to read it if it had been either of her sergeants.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not like I think of it all the time or anything. But this is different!” The explosion of the word different caused several heads to turn. Hathaway looked down, alarmed. “Sir,” he almost whispered. “I can’t remember. I try to. But there’s this huge hole. One minute I’m at Pear Tree, feeling ill and wondering how I’ll get home, the next I’m naked, lying on brambles, covered in bruises and hurting like hell, and it’s dawn, miles from where I was and ... and – why did they do this? This I mean!” Hathaway gestured to his face. “They drugged me. I couldn’t fight back. Why did they hurt me?”

“Got off on the violence, I expect,” Lewis found himself answering before he could stop himself.

“Yeah. Yeah. I’d figured that out for myself.”

*

As soon as they got through Lewis’ front door he yawned. “Sorry James, but I’m going to have to crash.” He headed for the bedroom. Hathaway followed.

“You want something?”

“I don’t want to be left alone.”

Lewis yawned again. “Whatever,” he began to mutter, but not completing the word as he fell face down on his bed, literally asleep before his head hit the quilt, his body finally allowed to give in to the unremitting, exhausting fight to stay conscious after 40+ hours of almost continual wakefulness.


	4. SUNDAY MORNING, 8:30AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigating the murder and facing the gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

The phone was ringing, insistently. Lewis sat up, glancing at the alarm clock. 8:30? But evening or morning? He grabbed the phone, dropped it and blearily eyed reached for his work mobile.

“Lewis. Where the hell are you? We have an eminent don brutally murdered and you’re not at your desk! I would have thought this was right up your street. Fine, you had a difficult day yesterday, but I would have expected you at your desk by eight at the latest.”

“Ma’am.”

“I offered you the chance to pass, didn’t I? How long do you expect Hooper to cover for you? He’s okay, but a bit of a plodder. I can give this to Grainger, now, if you like.”

“No, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am. Is Hooper doing this on his own Ma’am?”

“He has Davis in. And Ngoti. Oh yes, and our new graduate, Sophie Mercer. Bright girl, but inexperienced. But they need their DI, Robbie.” Innocent’s temper seemed to have fizzled out. “Sophie already thinks she has a possible suspect, but no evidence and no real motive, as far as I can see, apart from what she imagines she sees in a student.”

“She’s young Ma’am. And enthusiastic. I’ll be there as soon as I’m showered and dressed.”

“Good. And James?”

“Not sure Ma’am.”

“Well, tell him we’ll be pleased to see him but understand if he’s not up to it.”

“Ma’am.”

Lewis looked around the room. It seemed incredibly tidy and much cleaner. He was in bed. He remembered passing out on top of the bed. Someone – James, obviously – had removed his jacket, tie and shoes. But where was the boy? Sitting still, he suddenly heard a very gentle snore and looked beside him. He couldn’t see anything of James, just a bump in the bedclothes near the bottom of the bed. He tugged the quilt off, surprised to see James Hathaway curled up in a tight ball, sound asleep, clutching the panda in one hand and his own hair in the other, dressed in blue pyjama trousers and a white sleeveless tee, bruises stark and purple against the white skin of his arms and shoulders, swollen finger marks across his upper arms, nasty red rope burns around his wrists. Dear God!

Clutching the panda, sound asleep, he looked about half his age, and Lewis could see the frightened abused boy of Crevecoeur and hated it, feeling intrusive. He pulled the quilt back up partly, but not over his face. He couldn’t help be reminded of his children when they were young, creeping into their parents’ bed when one of them had had a nightmare, kicking mummy out of bed to sleep with daddy because only daddy could make them feel safe and protected because daddy was a big, important policeman. Well, he couldn’t protect them from losing their mam, could he? Now he wanted to protect James so badly, but hated the comparison with his children.

He reached out and shook James’ shoulder gently. “James, wake up.” But he didn’t stir. Lewis didn’t push it, and instead headed for the bathroom, which was sparklingly clean. It appeared the housework fairies had magically spring-cleaned the flat while he slept, or rather; one messed up fairy unable to sleep. Was this why Hathaway’s white and cream flat was always show house pristine when he didn’t have a cleaner? He’d always assumed it was some monk like spiritual purity, but perhaps it was sleepless nights and a distraction from thinking. Well, he certainly seemed to have done a better job than Lewis’ own cleaning lady, even the taps and the showerhead shone.

Once dressed and ready to go, Lewis tried once more to wake Hathaway.

“James! James Hathaway! Sergeant! Wake up!” He noticed a glass of water and a pill bottle on the bedside table. Hurriedly, he checked. One pill missing of the three the hospital had sent him home with. A mild sedative, nothing too strong. He’d also apparently taken some painkillers too, but again, only one dose. Hating himself, Lewis left one dose of the painkillers and pocketed the rest of the drugs and then quickly scrawled a note. Then he recovered the sleeping form with the quilt and left for work.

*

Everyone in his office seemed immensely pleased and relieved to see him. Lewis walked in to the outer, open plan office to a joyful chorus of ‘sir’.

“Right, someone get me a coffee and a bacon roll. Someone else fill me in.”

There was a slight beat of time, a subtle glance of Hooper, Davis and Ngoti before Sophie Mercer offered to get the coffee and roll. As Hooper had been there since the beginning he summarized the situation.

Most of the schools had finished and most students gone down for the summer, saving those with examinations, those undertaking post graduate research and those, with special dispensation, given extensions. In the east wing of the college there had been four students, all at the opposite end to Sebastian Charles. Mary-Jane Hartwell, calling herself Maryam Isa, reading theology, with a record an arm long with a succession of minor offences, mostly to do with public order and damage to property following demonstrations and protests, but also a caution for possession of cannabis. Ayesha Khan, reading English literature, and a tutee of Charles, Hartwell’s friend. Didn’t live in college but was staying with her friend Mary-Jane, or Maryam. Seemed to be an underlying reason connected to Charles to why she was staying, but only Mercer was convinced she was a possible suspect. Tania Andrews, reading mathematics, also had a guest, this time unofficially, her boyfriend, Yugio Lee, also reading maths. Charles had been unknown to either of them apart from by sight, and they alibied each other and had no possible motive. One other professor in residence, on the floor above Charles’ room, a Dr. Andrew Mortimore, a friend of Charles, although he had pointed out in his interview and statement, a somewhat uneasy friendship. Mortimore was uncomfortable with what he called Charles’ ‘unreconstructed, backward looking attitude to the fairer sex, the darker skinned and the poorer background students’. He was also forever claiming to have affairs with the most beautiful and innocent and intelligent of his female students, almost one a year. Mortimore put this down to mere fantasy and wishful thinking. He was also, in Mortimore’s words, ‘an odious toad’. He was an unlikely suspect as mild irritation and disapproval was hardly a motive. Besides, he’d been on Sykpe at the time, talking to a colleague at Harvard.

The Master was at a conference at the Sorbonne. He was a modern language professor and was keen to get Lady Julian on the summer language school gravy train. His wife had gone with him, for the shopping. The Bursar was walking in the Lakes, it being a bank holiday weekend. Charles had told his scout not to bother him all weekend, as he would be busy correcting proofs on his latest book. This was common knowledge, which is why he’d not been missed at breakfast.

Professor Sebastian Charles was a literature professor, specializing in gothic novels of the early Victorian period, with a fondness for the macabre and the pornographic. He had a very extensive and very expensive collection of first editions of Aubrey’s work, all of which were still in his rooms. He’d been a rival of the Counsellor, being up at Oxford since his undergraduate days and had challenged the no male tutors policy as a young don and had lived at Lady Julian ever since his victory and had never left. Regarding friends, family and habits; he had few friends, Mortimore being perhaps the only true friend he had. He had a large, extended family of who he’d been fond. Two sisters, both widows, had relied on their big brother. He had nine nieces and nephews, all of who were extremely fond of him and looked on him as a surrogate father. He had three great nieces and a great nephew, ranging in ages from three to 24. That was the great nephew who had discovered the body. He was in 3Paras and had just returned from Iraq. He had very little in the way of property and money to leave, and what money he had he was always extremely generous with, giving without stint to any family member that asked. His own cottage he had lent to a newly divorced niece, his youngest, and her three years old daughter.

Hobson had confirmed that the knife wound to the heart had killed him, most probably almost instantaneously and it was likely he had been already dead when the guns were inserted and fired. The guns were a handgun and a sawn off shotgun, two separate guns, most likely fired at the same time. They were already looking for guns around the college, the back streets, the bins, the meadows and the river, but they didn’t hold out much hope. Apart from the post mortem, there were no other forensics at all. The place had been cleaned too thoroughly.

“So he’s a clever sod,” Hooper concluded. “Or they are, since Hobson says the guns were fired together.”

“Or she. Or shes,” corrected Lewis.

“What sir?”

“Something Hathaway said. About revenge.” He tapped the photos of the two gunshot wounds on the incident board. “Revenge for rape or abuse,”

“Gross.”

“Sick.”

“Makes a sort of twisted sense,” mused Mercer.

“Yes,” agreed Ngoti. “You see this sort of punishment, revenge, torture in places in Africa, in war zones, where there is no order, where –” He broke off, choked. He focused. “But there, they would not kill first... Maybe the mutilation was an after thought, the simple murder hadn’t produced the right buzz?”

“Maybe,” agreed Lewis mildly. “Too early to say.”

“And how is Sergeant Hathaway Sir?” asked Hooper. Lewis glared at him, and all four DCs looked down. This was not good.

“No doubt the rumour mill has done its stuff and you’ve all heard garbled versions of what happened Friday night.”

“Wife told me sir,” Davis said sheepishly. “I told the others. But yeah, it’s spreading round the nick like wildfire.”

“But we nicked ‘em Sir. We got them when half the police forces ’cross England and Europe want ‘em,” said Mercer, sounding more excited that concerned.

“Immigration, Customs and Drugs all queuing up to talk to them,” added Ngoti.

“Bit of a result for Hathaway really,” added Davis.

“I don’t think Hathaway will see it like that,” said Lewis flatly, then looked up to see Hathaway stood in the doorway, momentarily reminisant of a startled rabbit caught in a car’s head lights.

“Right then. Let’s leave those Russian bastards to Laxton’s team, and Immigration and Drugs, and Interpol and God knows who else. We’ve got murderers to catch – and yes, according to Dr. Hobson, as Hooper pointed out, it’s murderers in the plural. At least two, perhaps more...”

“Khan and Hartwell Sir?” piped up Mercer.

“Come in James, and fetch me some more coffee. Sophie’s had to do your job this morning. And Sophie, come into my office and tell me your theory. Although, as the great detective said, ‘it is a capital offence to theorize in the absence of data’.”

“Eh?”

“Sherlock Holmes, Sophie. Don’t you read? Or watch TV?”

“No Sir. I mean yeah, but –” she followed her boss into his office, feeling slightly nervous.

When Hathaway returned with the coffee he found DC Sophie Mercer sitting on his desk swinging her legs while Lewis smiled up at her, maybe appreciating those legs. He slammed the coffee down.

“Thank you.” Lewis switched his smile to his sergeant, who’d heart skipped a beat. But this was quite normal, and he hid it, as usual. “I could do with a muffin to go with this,” Lewis asked, smiling wider. Sophie sniggered, but Hathaway was not in the mood for pathetic innuendo, if any had been intended, which he doubted.

“You’ll get fat,” he said tartly, and turned tail. Lewis watched him. Sophie watched Lewis watching Hathaway.

“He’ll be fine Sir.”

“Eventually,” agreed Lewis. “Go get Ngoti and bring those girls in. I’d like a chat with them.” He followed Sophie out of his office. “Hooper, Davis. Bring Hathaway up to speed. I’m going to see Laxton.”

“Sir,” said Hooper to his boss’s retreating back.

 

*

“It’s quite a record, Mary-Jane,” Lewis said.

“Yes, but its quite a while ago. And none of it’s violent. I never killed anyone. I couldn’t! And it’s Maryam now. Maryam Isa, not Mary-Jane Hartwell. I’ve done nothing illegal since I became a Muslim. In fact, you’ve got nothing on me since I came up four years ago. It’s all teen stuff. What is this? Harassment? I’m sorry the guy’s been murdered, but it’s not like I’m going to miss him. The guy was a Grade A creep. Not that I murdered him!”

“You seem quite keen to deny it Mary-Jane – Maryam. Sorry. And you said nothing violent. Try an ASBO for throwing stones of a bridge. You could have caused a death by causing a car accident.”

“Look, that was years ago. I was a kid. And it wasn’t me, it was the boys from the convoy. They were just having a laugh. Don’t think I don’t regret it, because I do. I agree we could have caused a car crash. But I was a kid! I didn’t understand. You should have blamed our parents, off their faces on weed, not given us ASBOs. You know nothing when you’re young.”

“You’re only 23 now. And what about kicking a policewoman in the shin? Sounds violent to me.”

“She pulled my hair.”

“Okay, so you missed that class in your non-violent passive resistance stuff. Fine. Let’s leave this for a moment and change tack. You said Charles was a creep. Any particular reason why?”

*

“Look, Ayesha. I can tell you’re upset. You know something. Please tell me. Are you protecting someone? Your friend perhaps?”

“Maryam? Why? No!”

“Your father?”

“NO!” Ayesha looked back down after her head had snapped up at the suggestion of her father murdering anyone, her long hair veiling her face, picking at the skin around her nail.

“Did you see something? Anything? Please. You can trust me. I’ve got a young constable convinced you have a motive.”

Ayesha looked up slyly. “You’re hardly old yourself, are you?”

“Please help me prove her wrong. Because right now I’m beginning to think she’s right. What are you hiding Ayesha?”

“What happened to your face, Sergeant? It’s mashed up pretty bad.”

“It’s personal, and not really relevant.”

“Piss off, it’s none of my business you mean?”

“Something like that. What do you know, Ayesha?”

“Injured in the line of duty, that kind of thing?”

“No.”

“Got in a fight down the pub then. Although you don’t seem a blokey sort of bloke, if you see what I mean? Ah, beaten up by your boyfriend, then?” This last guess Ayesha delivered with a smirk.

“Ayesha! Please!”

“See. Things can be personal, Sergeant. Private. I didn’t kill him. Please believe me. I’m not hiding that. Or protecting anyone else. Maryam’s a new Muslim. She tries so hard to be perfect in everything, so she wouldn’t, would she? Besides, I hardly slept that night. I’d have noticed if she left.”

“What about your father? Brother?”

“Why? Why would my father want to kill my tutor? He doesn’t even know I have a male tutor. He’d probably make me leave if he knew.”

“Maybe he does know, maybe he has a motive-”

Ayesha banged her fists down on the table. “I’ve told him nothing! None of my family! The shame would-”

“What shame Ayesha?”

“I’m saying nothing more.” She looked down again.

“Please tell me. I can help.”

Ayesha continued to look down, picking at the skin around her nails, her shoulders hunched and tense.

“What happened?” Hathaway softened his voice some more, as gentle and as unthreatening as he could manage. Ayesha continued to ignore him. He thought he saw a silent tear slide down her cheek, but with so much hair in the way it was hard to tell. He leant back in his chair, as silent as her, staring and biting the skin around his thumbnail. Eventually he sighed and looked up at the WPC.

“Would you get Miss Khan some tea, Tracy?” The WPC nodded and left. Hathaway leant forward, and was about to touch Ayesha’s arm in a reassuring gesture, but checked his impulse.

“I was raped.”

Ayesha’s head snapped up, shocked.

“The bruises on my face. Well, not just my face, in fact. I was raped. On Friday night, the same night as the murder. I met a guy. He seemed nice. But he drugged my tea and he and his mate raped me. Repeatedly. And I can’t remember a thing that happened to me. There. That’s the personal and private explanation regarding my bruised face. Your discretion would be appreciated.”

“I’m sorry for you, but believe me, it’s better not to remember.”

“Ayesha, please help me help you.”

“I can’t. Really, I can’t.” She looked away, defiantly, and stared at the wall. Tracy returned with the tea, and a couple of biscuits. Hathaway left to find Lewis.

*

Lewis was pacing the outer office. He looked up, relieved as Hathaway came in. He gestured to his private office and Hathaway followed him in. Sophie Mercer looked up from the statements she was processing and watched them, eyes burning with curiosity.

“Well?”

“Well, she’s definitely hiding something with regards to Professor Charles, but my instincts say she didn’t kill him. Someone or someones could have, on her behalf though. She won’t trust me. If only I could get her tell me what she’s hiding. It’s to do with shame and honour. It’s a different culture.”

“A different culture, eh? Well, in manner of speaking I suppose it is with Mary-Jane Hartwell, isn’t it? She’s barely hiding her rage. Chips on the shoulder, feels persecuted.”

“It’s not the difference she wants though, is it? Bit egotistical, her new name, init?”

“Is it?”

“Well, Maryam- Mary –”

“Fair enough, it’s her name anyways.”

“No, then Isa – Jesus. Maryam umm Isa, or as we Catholics call her, Mary mother of Jesus.”

“Or of God, to be more accurate as far as you Catholics go. But its not just Muslims that feel uncomfortable with that you know?” Lewis wondered why on earth they’d meandered on to a theological path. And why attack James’ beliefs, however subtle, although Lewis suspected he’d been as subtle as a brick. And he only had one problem with James’ religion, the part that led to self-loathing and a refusal to accept his own sexuality. Lewis always had fairly definite sexual morals himself, connected to love and commitment. James was frowning, looking confused and more than slightly worried. “Well, no matter, its not like we’d get married in a church anyways,” Lewis said cheerfully, just for the hell of seeing James’ panicked face.

“Are you taking the piss?”

What, like you? Take the piss by saying exactly what you mean hoping it’ll be taken as a sarcastic joke. Never. “Perhaps. A bit. Can’t see you in white. And I take your point. An egoistical choice of name for one who’d supposed to have surrendered her ego.”

Hathaway struggled to centre himself and focus on the investigation. Married? Where did that come from? This was the second time since he’d kissed his boss he’s felt sure he was flirting. “Egotistical or not, most of her convictions and cautions and the ASBOs... Well, it’s either kids stuff or left wing agitation. Iraq. Anti war protests. That kind of thing.”

“Goes back further than you think. Mother was a Greenham common veteran. At Newbury, too. Mary-Jane spent two days in foster care when her mother was arrested for obstruction, and again when she was arrested for hunt ‘sabbing’.”

“It’s not murder, is it? Peace protests. Environmental protests. Animal rights. The very opposite, really.”

“Father’s an old fashioned commie, in the SWP. Arrested too, on a few picket lines and demonstrations.”

“What are you saying? They resent her joining the establishment here at Oxford they kill a random don. He’s not her tutor, is he?”

“No. No, don’t be daft man. I’m just saying she won’t trust me. She’s been brought up to believe –” Lewis gestured speech quotations in the air “- ‘all pigs are out to get you’. I get the feeling she knows more than she’s letting on, but she won’t say. She got as far as telling me Charles was a creep and then clammed up.”

“Want me to see her?”

“Together. Then we’ll see Ayesha Khan.”

*

“Hello again Maryam. This is Detective Sergeant Hathaway.”

“Hi. I’ve just been talking to your friend Ayesha. She’s very upset.”

Maryam snorted. “Of course she is! You arrested her!”

“We’ve arrested neither of you, Miss Hartwell. You’re both just assisting us with our inquiries,” Lewis corrected.

“Inspector Lewis tells me that you called Sebastian Charles a creep. Can you tell me why that is, Maryam?”

Maryam shrugged. “What do you think?”

“We’ve heard what other people have said. Dr. Mortimore, for instance. But we’d very much like to hear what you’ve got to say.”

“Nothing.”

“A man was brutally and vilely murdered in your college Miss Hartwell or Maryam Isa, or whatever you’re calling yourself! I can always charge you, here and now,” threatened Lewis.

“I didn’t kill him and you can’t prove that I did.”

“No, but I can charge you with obstruction.”

“Look, I’m just protecting Ayesha. Okay? She didn’t kill him either. Neither of us left the room from nine o’clock that night until the following morning, when I went out for lattes and Danish pastries for breakfast. Ayesha’s not left my room until we were brought here. Is she terribly upset?”

“She’s unhappy, Maryam, but she won’t tell us why,” Hathaway answered.

“Look, I don’t get it, okay? It’s to do with honour. But neither of us killed him.”

“Her father then? Or brothers?”

“Her brothers are annoying, snotty nosed kids. It’s why she spends so much time in college. She bent over backwards to make sure her father didn’t know –”

“Know what Miss Hartwell?” asked Lewis.

“I promised,” Maryam replied flatly.

“Tell us why Professor Charles was a creep,” Hathaway asked again.

“Well, he was. He looked at you. I mean, all the female students. A lot of the younger female staff too. Academics, scouts, anyone really. Lady Julian’s only been taking male students since 1999 right?”

Lewis nodded while Hathaway shrugged.

“Do you know what he called me? The ‘sexy young agitator’. Then, when I started wearing the hijab I became ‘the beautiful young terrorist’. I heard him refer to Ayesha like that too. And ‘the dusky foreign beauty’ and ‘the exotic eastern peach’. He was like that, racist, sexist and just very, very creepy.”

“And that’s it? That’s all?” demanded Lewis.

“Please, Maryam.”

“He hurt her. Okay. I don’t know if it was just a grope or something far worse. She hides her body, so I don’t know if she’s injured. It’s all to do with shame and honour and she was very distraught, but she’s not actually confided in me as to what actually happened at her tutorial. Aaghh!” Maryam threw up her hands in disgust with herself. “I promised to protect her, to keep her secret...”

Hathaway put his hand to her wrist in a calming gesture. “You did the right thing. You are absolutely sure her father knows nothing?”

“Absolutely sure. I was there when she phoned him and when he brought her suitcase.”

“And they spoke English? Not Urdu or Punjabi?” Hathaway asked.

“One hundred percent English. Ayesha doesn’t really know much Urdu and no Punjabi. Her parents brought the children up with English as the first language. They wanted them to do better at school than them.”

“Thank you Maryam. You’ve been a great help. You can go now,” Lewis said.

“I’d rather wait for Ayesha. Can I do that?”

“Sure. I’ll get the WPC to take you to the canteen. Julie.” Hathaway indicated to PC Bennett and she nodded, smiling at Maryam.

“They’ve some nice Chelsea buns in today,” she said.

Maryam smiled for the first time. Maybe not all pigs were the enemy. She turned to Hathaway as he and Lewis were at the door.

“What happened to your face then?”

Seeing his stricken face, Lewis opened the door for Hathaway and gave him a gentle push out. “It’s all to do with shame and honour,” he said darkly and followed Hathaway out into the corridor, where Hathaway turned on him.

“Is that what you think Sir? That I’ve been dishonoured? Shamed?”

“Don’t been daft. You’re as a honourable man as you ever were, and you have no reason to be ashamed. It wasn’t your fault.”

“As honourable as I ever was? But I’ve always been damaged goods, haven’t I?”

Lewis touched Hathaway gently on the back. “You okay? Need a break?”

“Fine. Fine Sir. Really. What do you think, though. Ayesha’s father and some uncles? Some form of honour killing. Worth a punt?”

“Doubt it James. Doesn’t fit the MO, somehow. If they were going to mutilate the corpse, castration seems more likely, don’t you think? Besides which, I believe her. About Ayesha Khan desperate to hide what happened from her family, I mean. Now, if you’re sure you’re okay, let’s go see if we can get the girl to confirm her friend’s story, then we can get them sent home.”

“Sir.”

*

“As salaam alaykum, Ayesha. This is my boss, Inspector Lewis. We’ve just been talking to Maryam, Ayesha. She confirms your story, such as it is. That your father knew nothing.”

“The thing is, Miss Khan,” Lewis added gently, “we do need to know the whole story. I can guarantee that it won’t go out of this room.”

“Or, if it does, your name won’t be used,” Hathaway qualified.

Ayesha stared from one to the other with eyes swollen with unshed and previously shed tears and with fear. She really was very beautiful.

“You salaamed me. How come? You definitely are not a Muslim.”

“Catholic,” replied Hathaway.

“He studied theology,” added Lewis.

“Oh, like Maryam. Whereabouts?”

“Cambridge.”

“Oh,” Ayesha replied flatly. She didn’t exactly wrinkle her nose as if someone had let off a bad smell, but just enough to see that Ayesha Khan had crossed that mostly invisible barrier from Town to Gown.

“Please Miss Khan, we need to know. What is this shameful thing you are hiding? We can help you,” Lewis asked gently.

“No. No, you can’t. Maryam had no right to –”

“She had no choice.”

“Did your father guess?” began Hathaway, one last push in the honour killing direction.

“No! God! No!” Ayesha covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “But it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I wanted him punished. God forgive me, I wanted him...”

“Hey hey. It’s best you tell us,” placated Lewis, pulling out a hanky from his pocket and handing it to her across the desk.

Ayesha looked up, her face once again awash with tears. “Sergeant Hathaway. I’ll tell the sergeant and no-one else.”

Lewis nodded slowly and stood up, gesturing for Tracy Hicks, the WPC, to follow him out.

“Professor Charles raped me,” Ayesha said flatly, as soon as they were alone.

“I guessed.”

“That Friday afternoon. A few hours before you, I guess.” Ayesha looked at him suspiciously. “If it happened. Did you make that up to get me to trust you?”

“No. It happened. But I did confide in you to make you trust me.”

“Ah. And can you really not remember? How can you tell?”

“What, that it happened? If the bruising and all the telling forensics weren’t enough, the anal bleeding’s a bit of a give away.”

“Oh God! Is this what you English do, make a joke of everything? I was born here but I could never be flippant about... Are you okay?”

“What do you think? Are you?”

“And you really, really don’t remember? Will you ever remember?”

Hathaway shrugged. “The doctors tell me it will take about week before I remember anything, if I will. It depends on how much alcohol as well as the drug, apparently. I may not remember much at all, or it may come back bit by bit. Or in one go.” Hathaway snorted. “The doctor wasn’t really very forth coming at all!”

“And bleeding, you said..?”

“Not all the time. Not much. If I run, or...”

“Do you want to remember? I wish I couldn’t.”

Hathaway seemed to consider. He sniffed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I think it’s the not knowing that’s driving me crazy. If you know what you’ve been through you can start to deal with it. I’m in court in just under three weeks. Not as a policeman you understand. As a victim. No doubt you’ve heard about it. The Crevecoeur abuse case.”

“Shit.”

“But I survived. That’s what I’m saying. If you know what happened you can chose to forget. But this... This is a big black hole in my mind.”

“But I envy you that hole. I’d rather not remember. I can’t make myself forget, like you seem to think you can. I remember it constantly. There was nothing I could do. He was so much bigger, stronger. I tried to fight, but – I’m bruised too. And I bled too, but that was, well...”

“Have you seen a doctor? We can get you seen by a woman doctor here, in private.”

Ayesha shrugged. “They’re just bruises. It’s inside that hurts.”

“Then you -”

“In the mind. The soul.”

“There is no sin Ayesha. You had no choice.”

“Will my husband see it like that?!”

“I think, Ayesha, that you have a choice about that. One day, soon probably, you’ll have to chose between the Islam of rural Pakistan and urban Cowley and the elevated, lofty academic Islam of Oxford.”

“You read a few books and you’re suddenly you’re an expect.”

“No, I had a friend. A girl friend.” Hathaway caught Ayesha’s glare. “A girl –” he gestured with his hands, “very big space – friend. Bengali Londoner. Reading physics. She had to chose between family and an arranged marriage and Cambridge and Physics.”

“So who won?”

“She’s one of the world’s leading experts on quarks. Tell me what happened Ayesha?”

“He was always... a little disrespectful. A comment here, a touch there. But I was brought up to think that all English white men were like that.”

“Please allow me to apologize on behalf of my race, culture and gender.”

“Oh no. My attitude was racist. But he was a pig!”

“Lots of men are pigs,” Hathaway agreed mildly.

“Not you?”

“I hope not. What happened? Why did you say it was your fault.”

“Because I prayed for it to happen!” Ayesha burst out, before breaking down into sobs.

“That’s understandable. It doesn’t make it your fault.”

“I asked God to punish him, and He did.”

“Does God just do your bidding then?”

“Astaghfirullah! Of course not!”

“Whoever killed him punished him. I think it’s likely that whatever he did to you he’d done before.”

“Very likely. Many times, probably.”

“And God will punish him on the Day of Judgement. You and I know that. But as for what happened to him, humans did that.”

“And you and your Inspector, you’ll find them? Don’t you think he deserved it?”

“If I thought like that I couldn’t be a policeman. The two men who... who did this to me. They’re in our custody suite...”

“You could arrange an ‘accident’.”

“I couldn’t do that Ayesha.”

“Nor could I kill Professor Charles, Sergeant Hathaway.”

“I know that.”

“And nor did my father. I’m going to make sure he’ll never find out. And you’ve got it wrong, you know?”

“Wrong? What have I got wrong?”

“It’s the rape victim who gets murdered in a so called ‘honour killing’. But my father’s not like that. None of my family is. Look!” Ayesha flicked her long, loose hair from her face, making a point. She looked right into Hathaway’s eyes, something she’d never done before, looking into a man’s eyes other than her father’s.

“I’m sorry.”

“And I’m sorry too. He asked me to fetch a book, you know, from his bedroom. Then he followed me in, locked the door and suddenly he was on top of me, having pushed me on the bed. I fought and struggled, I bit and I screamed, but...” Ayesha covered her face. “Afterwards, he just made a pot of tea and went on with the tutorial like nothing had happened. Then, at the end, he threatened me.”

“Threatened you? How?”

“He basically said I would get a third, or even be sent down, if I told anyone. So yes Sergeant, I think he probably had done this to other women, other girls. Maybe one of them. Maybe someone whose life he’d ruined.”

“We’re beginning to think so too.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes. Your friend, Maryam, is waiting for you. But look. Please. Think! You said you couldn’t sleep. Maybe you heard something, saw something. Anything. Did you look out of the window? Hear an unusual noise? Anything at all?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll try to remember. What is your name, anyway? I’d like to make du’a for you, for when your memory returns and when you’re in court.”

“Thank you Ayesha. It’s James. And I’ll pray for you too, if you don’t object to a Christian praying for you?”

“We are all People of the Book.” Ayesha smiled a dazzling smile. Hathaway smiled back.

“Come on, I’ll take you to your friend.”

*

Hathaway escorted Ayesha to the canteen to where Maryam sat drinking filthy coffee and eating deliciously fattening buns.

“You can both go home now. I’ll arrange for a car to take you.”

“Thank you, but I think we’ll take the bus,” Maryam answered hastily, before Ayesha could speak. “I think we’ve had enough of police hospitality.”

“Maryam, before you go.” Hathaway held out a card. “My number. You’re a convert, so I’m guessing you never miss a single prayer. You’d have been up late for Isha, early for Fajr. It’s nearly the solstice, so these prayers have to be either side of the time window for the murder. If you remember anything, anything at all. Unusual sound, anything! Please call me.”

“Okay,” said Maryam slowly, taking the card and shoving it in her patchwork bag.

“And you too,” Hathaway handed Ayesha a card. She lifted the back of her chemise and put it in the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll show you out,” Hathaway said.

“Can I have one of those buns to go?” Ayesha asked in a rush. “I’m suddenly starving.”

“She’s hardly eaten all weekend,” blurted out Maryam, happily.

“Sure. I’ll get you two.”

“Thanks. And ignore Maryam. Can you sort us a car?”


	5. SUNDAY, EARLY AFTERNOON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evidence like gold from an unexpected source, a person from Hathaway's childhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

While Lewis and Hathaway conducted interviews over the afternoon, all four DCs were supposed to be plodding through the routine and mundane bedrock that sustained any investigation. Hooper and Davis were supposed to be going through Charles’ rooms, possessions and paperwork, but Davis received a phone call from his mother-in-law and went rushing off to Abingdon minor injuries. His middle daughter had jumped a little too high on the trampoline and had possibly fractured her ankle. He had a feeling that it was over reaction on one part and attention seeking on the other, but since it was easier for him to get time off than Julie he gladly went. It beat rifling through a dead man’s possessions, although only marginally. He knew from far too much experience from his clumsy, adventurous and attention seeking middle daughter that Sundays at Abingdon meant a long, long wait. Still, he’d covered enough for Hooper when his kids were small for Hooper to object.

Meanwhile, Sophie Mercer had been sent to find and interview Charles’ extended family. Sophie thought it a complete waste of time, believing as she did that the Inspector and his Sergeant were interviewing the prime suspects. Still, yesterday Ngoti had thought maybe money was a motive. Who would inherit? It seemed unlikely, a following several phone calls and visits from local uniform officers it had emerged Charles was, as Hooper put it, ‘a very generous sod’ to his family. Yesterday had been an interesting experience. With the absence of both Inspector and Sergeant it had been an investigation by democracy. She was currently on her way to interview the niece who was living in his cottage. Maybe the murderers had tried there, Hooper suggested, maybe she saw or heard something or someone suspicious in the hours and days before the murder. Again, since she believed the murderers to have been in his college, she thought it a waste of time. But, since she’d only been at the job for a few weeks she bowed to Hooper’s seniority, in age and experience, if not rank.

That left Muhammad Ngoti, who was working his way through CCTV footage from the college entrance way and The High – there was a camera only a few metres from the college doorway. He had noticed that the four women who had escorted Charles home had returned to the college within the hour, only to be turned away by the porter, when he was interrupted.

“Oh. I was hoping to find Sergeant Hathaway.”

Ngoti stood up, almost to attention. “Ma’am.”

“Not in, I see.” Laxton came in. She seemed discomforted by his public school and Somali formality. “Oh. Carry on constable.” Laxton repressed the urge to giggle. Muhammad Ngoti was very attractive, if you like that sort of thing, she mused. Tall, well built, crisp white shirt on smooth, dark chocolate skin. A lot of her girls liked him, those who didn’t like their men tall, blond, skinny and unobtainable. Curious, Laxton wandered in to see what Ngoti was up to. “Oh! I know that woman! She’s not a suspect, is she?”

“Well Ma’am, these women were with the victim, and then returned.”

“But that is DI Amanda Harding, from Manchester CID. I met her on a conference a few months ago. A charming woman, intelligent and very dedicated.”

“Well, since they were with him, Ma’am.”

“She’ll need to make a statement, of course, and her friends. But Lady Julian was her college, I remember her saying. Tell Lewis I’ll give him her details, although Manchester CID should have them.”

“Shall I tell Hathaway, Ma’am?”

“No. No, it’ll keep. I just wanted to see how he was doing, really.”

Ngoti considered. “Twitchy,” he replied. “I really cannot imagine what he is feeling.”

“Where is he?”

“Interviewing a suspect, Ma’am.”

“Can’t be that bad, can he?”

“Work can be a distraction.” Ngoti turned his eyes back to the screen, switching his attention The High’s CCTV images. “Ma’am?” he said, but Laxton had left. He called again, louder, then leapt up and ran to the corridor. “Inspector,” he yelled to her retreating back.

“Ngoti?” Laxton turned just as she reached the stairwell.

“I think you need this footage too Ma’am.”

“What?”

“It’s Hathaway.”

“What?!” Laxton followed Ngoti back to his desk and she watched Hathaway, arm through the Russian’s, looking at him through his eyelashes and seemingly giggling, bump into DI Amanda Harding. “Oh boy, defence is going to love that.”

“So will Hooper and Davis,” Ngoti added dryly, then more seriously said, “He’s flirting with him, sure, but he didn’t ask to be drugged and handed over to his friend to...to...” Ngoti looked down. He, his mother and his little sister had come to the UK as refugees. It took forever to find his two older sisters, but when they did. The dreadful things the soldiers had done to them, the damage to their minds as well as bodies, the damage to the whole family. “I hope you get those bastards sent down for a long, long time. Ma’am.”

“Don’t worry. We will.” Laxton sighed. “You’d better get a copy of that sent to my team.”

“Yes Ma’am.” The phone rang on Lewis’ desk. “Excuse me Ma’am.”

*

 

As soon as Hathaway returned from seeing to Maryam and Ayesha Lewis stood up. “Right then Sergeant.”

“Are we going somewhere Sir?”

“Oxford. To the nick. Did you get my hanky back?”

“Oh. Sorry Sir. I forget. Why are going to the nick?”

“Some homeless loonie wandered in wanting the person in charge of the Lady Julian killing.”

“Not sure ‘loonie’ is the correct pc...”

“Known to the local uniform lads. Goes by the name of ‘the Mushroom Jesus’.”

Hathaway wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, all sarcastic quips had fled. Still, he wasn’t really at the best he’d ever been, more like the worst ever, he mused.

*

The Mushroom Jesus sat on a chair in an interview room rocking backwards and forwards, crooning incomprehensively to himself. He was dressed in a dirty, smelly orange hoody, the hood up, and ripped army combats and Doc Marten boots with no laces or socks. Flopped on the floor beside him was an equally smelly Alsatian cross with a blue bandana instead of a collar. Clutched in the man’s arms was a ripped black bin bag.

Lewis stood in the doorway, momentarily at a loss. The sad, the lost, the mentally ill had not really roamed the streets as much back when he’d been in uniform, Mrs. Thatcher not yet have come up with the fabulous money saving wheeze of ‘community care’. He rubbed his eye and stepped into the room.

“Ah. Mr... Mushroom Jesus? You asked to see me.”

“Make the connection. Connecting the dots. You investingating the college bloke’s murder?”

“Yes. I’m the officer in charge of Sebastian Charles’ death.”

“Then you’re in my mind. What about him?” he spun in his chair, one arm arching to point at Hathaway.

“My sergeant.”

“James! Whore of Crevecoeur!” He stood up, still clutching the bin bag.

Hathaway visibly rocked on his heels with shock.

“Mushrooms open the mind. Make the connections. You are a whore. Posh public school while we get kicked out, make us homeless. Oh yes highly favoured whore. Dumping my sister and Paul for the pretty blond whore! Getting whore’s daddy to evict us!”

“Sir, I really think...” Lewis tried, alarmed, taking a step towards the disturbed man as he swayed, chanting the words as if they were an incantation.

“The mushroom lord seed it all. He tells me. Watch. Watch the summerhouse. I seed it all. Whore!”

“Who are you?” Hathaway demanded.

“I is the Mushroom Messiah. Open your mind to the magic and God will pour into your head. You see? You see?”

“Please Sir, calm down. You asked to see me. You have vital information regarding the murder.”

“Murder. Yeah,” said the man, turning his unfocused gaze on Lewis.

“So, please tell me. Anything you can do to help would be gratefully appreciated.”

“Yeah. Yeah. So you want me to talk with the whore in the room?”

“He’s not a...” Lewis spat between his teeth before stopping himself and taking breath, focusing and calming himself he tried again. “Sergeant Hathaway is here to assist me. I can ask him to leave the room.”

Hathaway turned his angry gaze to Lewis.

“We is hungry.”

“James, go and see if you can rustle up some food for the gentleman.”

Hathaway acknowledged this with an increase in his hateful gaze. If looks could kill... He’s been frantically trying to remember who the man was, how he knew him. He looked back at the homeless man. “Craig is it? No. Luke.”

“I is the Mushroom Jesus. The mushroom king needs you to open your mind to his love through his magic mushrooms. Take the trip, man. And ask him to forgive your whoring!” This last bit was shouted in Hathaway’s face. “We is hungry!” he added, spittle dribbling on to his chin.

“James, just get out of here. Get the man some food!”

“Sir.”

“Luke, is it? Can you please tell me why you asked to see me?”

“This is the answer. This is the lifeblood of the man. This will take you to the truth.”

“I hope so. May I?” Lewis reached across for the bag but Luke – or Mushroom Jesus as he called himself – emptied it on to the table. It contained two Sainsbury’s carrier bags, one knotted, and one opened. The open one showed a pair of jeans and something that might have been white both soaked in blood. There were three Waitrose bags and one green plastic bag with no logo. Lewis pulled on a pair of blue plastic gloves he’d got from his pocket and prodded the green bag. It contained cleaning products and cloths. He gingerly opened one of the Waitrose bags. A blue crime scene suit, a pair of gloves and overshoes. Bloody clothes in the Sainsbury’s bags, blue plastic protective clothing in the Waitrose ones and cleaning products in the green.

“Bloody brilliant, man. You were right to come in with this.”

“Connecting the dots. Making the connection?”

“Yeah. Yes, it will. Thanks.”

“Find the killer. Punish the killer.” He sat down again, rocking back and forth, muttering the same words, over and over again.

At that moment, Hathaway crept discreetly back into the room. The almost comatose dog lifted her head and sniffed, a pathetic little wag slapping the floor.

“Thanks James.” Lewis indicated with his eyes to put the tea and sandwiches in front of Luke.

“Sir.” Luke reached out and grabbed Hathaway’s wrist as he did so.

“Sorry whore. My Beth was ugly and boring. Not your fault you were so highly favoured. Not your fault either your dad was such a bastard, either.”

Luke seemed so calm now, almost normal, Lewis wondered how much before had been an act. Even so, he was an extremely disturbed man. Perhaps ten or more years older than James, at a guess, but life on the streets aged a person fast. He watched warily, through narrow eyes, as James disengaged his wrist, not betraying a flicker of pain as Luke squeezed the red raw, sore rope burns under his cuff.

Hathaway didn’t respond. He didn’t feel inclined to defend his father.

“This what you did with that posh school education you whored for, is it? Become a pig? Bit of a waste, init?”

“I had a scholarship,” Hathaway said neutrally, stepping back, fixing his eyes desperately on Lewis.

“James,” Lewis warned, barely perceptively shaking his head. “Get an evidence bag for this lot and then get it in the car. We’ll bag and tag it at Kidlington. Forensics will need most of it. Thank you again Luke... or Mushroom Jesus.”

Luke, who had been cramming cheese sandwich in his mouth, stood up, pointed and yelled, spraying crumbs and cheese. “So tell me, whore, do you still love taking it up the arse?”

Lewis swiftly stepped in front of Hathaway. “Car. Now. Sergeant.”

Hathaway turned tail and stormed out.

“Now Luke... Luke what?”

Luke sat down, suddenly calm and dejected. “Crawley, but I is the Mushroom Jesus now.”

“Sorry. Don’t follow your religion. But what I am is very grateful for your assistance. You are right, this is important evidence that will help us join a few dots.” Lewis took out his wallet and peeled out a couple of twenties. “Just a little something to show my gratitude.”

Just as Luke reached out to take the money, Lewis pulled it away out of reach.

“Uh-huh. Not so fast. I need a proper statement to how you found this evidence. It’s important. We have to help the judge and jury join the dots, too. You do understand?”

Luke shook his head.

“It’s making the connection in court so the killer gets punished.”

“Okay. I is cool with statements. And I is sorry I is rude to your bitch. What do I do?”

Sighing deeply and unclenching his fists, Lewis left to get a uniformed officer to assist with the formal statement about the whys and wherefores of how Luke found such startlingly brilliant evidence.

*  
Hathaway, leaning on the bonnet of Lewis’ car, flicked the butt of his cigarette away as Lewis approached, big plastic evidence bag in hand.

“You should have arrested him, Sir.”

“On what charge? He’s just given the best clues we could hope for.”

“He nearly went for me Sir. You saw that.”

“What I saw, Sergeant, was that you nearly went for him. And if anyone else had seen you’d have been up on a displinary.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh, James. Are you okay? Seriously now?”

“Its not true sir.”

Lewis sighed. “You were a child. And so was he. It was none of your fault. Do you remember him?”

“Not particularly him, he was much older than me. The family, yeah. Gave Dad a lot of problems. Their father was supposed to be a labourer, but I don’t think he did a honest day’s work, ever. Or dishonest, if it comes to that. Alcoholic, violent, work shy. There were seven kids, the youngest was Craig, a bit younger than me. He came round to play once, when I was about five. It was the first time I heard my Mum really lose her temper, you know? He emptied the toothpaste around the toilet bowl and put worms in the bath. I was banned from playing with them after that. Luke was the oldest boy. He was always weird. Dad had to evict them. They were two years behind the rent. Dad hated all that, his Lordship’s dirty work, he called it.” Hathaway visibly shook himself, as if throwing off physical dirt. Lewis was astounded, it was the most he’d heard Hathaway tell of his past, ever. Best ignore it, he decided. That Luke had really upset him.

“But you are okay?”

“No sir. Someone nicked my pain killers.”

“Ah, that would be me. Come on, I’ll buy you a decent coffee and you can pop pills while I tell you how useful our loonie was.”


	6. LATE MAY BANK MONDAY MORNING, VERY EARLY HOURS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hathaway gets presents, Lewis gets a stern talking to by Hobson. They go to Brighton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

As Maryam rose before first light, to wash and prepare herself for the dawn prayer, she was startled by Ayesha sitting bolt upright, eyes staring wide.  
“I’ve remembered something. God! Do you think it’s important. I must phone Sergeant Hathaway. Where’s my phone? Where’s his card?”

“Ayesha, it’s twenty past three in the morning. Don’t you think he’ll be asleep?”

*

James Hathaway had also awoken, startled. He was back in Lewis’ bed, but he had absolutely no recollection of getting there. He had definitely gone to sleep on the sofa, taking another of the sedatives he’d been prescribed by the John Radcliffe doctor. Yet here he was, curled up in a tight ball at the end of Lewis’ bed, totally covered by the quilt. He lifted the edge to see it was first light, almost 48 hours to the hour to when he’d first woken up that time in Marsden Ferry Allotments. He shuddered violently but stilled himself, panicked, hardly daring to breathe. What the hell was Robbie Lewis going to think, finding him here yet again? Especially after the kiss. Slowly, by degrees, he began to edge out of the bed. Finally standing, he paused, allowing himself to look at his sleeping boss. Was it really such a sin to feel such love, to want to wake up every morning next to him, to take away his loneliness? He put his hand to his face, surprised to find it wet with tears. Had he really sleepwalked here? Was he cracking up?

He needed to get a grip, to focus on the practicalities of the case, on any distraction. His mind wouldn’t stop filling in the blanks with childhood memories and if he didn’t stop them he was afraid he would go crazy. Not as crazy as Luke, thankfully, reassuringly, but inappropriate behaviour? Yes, maybe. And drinking too much and not eating enough, or even vomiting up what he’s eaten? Definitely, unfortunately. And self-harming too? It worked as a distraction at university. He needed to find a better distraction.

*

Hathaway was surprised by his desk. Stunned would be a better word. Hurried out by Lewis to Oxford city police station, straight back to Lewis’ flat via a little corner shop for a couple of tins of Heinz Cream of Tomato soup afterwards, he’d not been at his desk since lunch time the previous day. To one side were piles of what he assumed to be gifts, as well as a few cards. To the left, one gift box from Lush. On the filing cabinet behind, a vase full of flowers, plus two jam jars full.

Marianna, the Romanian cleaner, was used to Sergeant Hathaway keeping really odd hours. She’d nearly finished this floor, and was the other side of the building when she noticed his car from the window. She rushed over to his office, long since cleaned. She stood now, in the doorway of Lewis’ office, watching Hathaway read his cards.

‘You are strong. Thinking of you. All the girls in Traffic.’

‘Be strong. Best wishes everyone in the canteen.’

‘We are thinking of you, from everyone in the call centre.’

‘Thinking of you. Julie, Tracy, Alanna and Debbie.’

A terse, ‘Thanks’ from everyone in Laxton’s team.

Finally, a small homemade card with a pressed flower over an embroidered cross. ‘We are praying for you. Pauline, Erina, Magda and Marianna.’

The presents appeared to outnumber the cards by at least three to one. Most appeared to be anonymous well wishers. Besides, there was no way of knowing which card went with which present, if they did, or if the cards were from some and the presents from others. Hathaway didn’t know whether to be appalled or touched by the gestures. Obviously, there was gossip, but many people, it seemed, wanted to what? Prove that they were not malicious gossips? So touched or shocked by the gossip they heard they wanted to do something, however small the gesture? It wasn’t such a bad hoard either. Three bottles of red wine, two of white. Two bottles of locally brewed real ale. Two boxes of Thortons chocolates, one of M&S Belgium chocolates and one packet of assorted Fair Trade chocolate bars.

Marianna coughed politely. “I tidy the gifts and put flowers in water. So many flowers! I could not get in one jar. I put the smelly thing away from the food and drink. I hope you do not mind?”

“No. No. Thank you.”

She seemed embarrassed. “I have present for you too. I get.” She rushed off, returning a few moments later with a plastic container. “I make you cake. It is cherry cake, I make with mamaliga not flour. Is why it is yellow. Usually we make with apples but you like cherries, yes?”

Hathaway looked up, curiously.

“I know you not eat much, but there are cherry pips in bin, yes. Lots of times. You eat it. Yes. You need to eat. I get you coffee.”

After Marianna left, Hathaway lifted the lid of the Tupperware box. Something yellow and sticky. He poked at it. Cherries in syrup underneath, maybe a bit like a pineapple upside down cake but with cherries and made with thick yellow corn meal instead of flour. He licked his finger. Cornmeal soaked in lemon syrup. He looked up as Marianna coughed politely yet again.

“You need fork?” She put one down, as well as a mug of steaming milky coffee. “It is hard to sleep, yes? I know this. I do not know what to say. I hear what people say about you. Paulina, she go ask – is this true? It is. I am sorry. So very sorry for you.” She looked ready to weep for him.

“It’s okay,” he found himself reassuring her banally.

“You English! So brave. How can it be okay?” She touched his cheek. He was crying again. Really, he had to get a grip. What was wrong with him? Gently, he removed her hand, but squeezed her fingers softly to show no bad feelings. He then looked down, unable to bear the sympathy in her eyes, embarrassed by the silent tears in his own. He sniffed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep crying, and I don’t. Cry, that is. Not since I was about six.”

“Well, that is bad! You need to cry. Everybody needs to cry. You have terrible thing happen. You need to cry.”

“But I don’t even know what happened, what they did...” But he broke off, because yet again memories of being so small, so weak, so powerless and afraid and yet so bizarrely anxious to please Augustus, poured into his head. The summerhouse. Augustus. His hands, his face, his...” Hathaway covered his face with his hands and put his head down on the desk.”

“I will leave you. You eat, drink. And cry. English people, you are stupid. Crying can be good for you. Our card, it say it all. I light a candle for you at my church, later.”

“Thank you, “ Hathaway muttered.

“Erina say do not blame all Russian men.”

“I don’t.”

“Good. I go now. Drink your coffee.” Marianna scuttled out, wanting to take the young man in her arms and mother him, but knowing it was something entirely inappropriate. Where was the boy’s own mother? Why was he not with her, instead of at work at five in the morning? Still, she would keep her promise and stop at church on her way home and light a candle.

Meanwhile, Hathaway tried to pull himself together. He drank the coffee, tried the cake, and then ate the lot in one go. Finishing the coffee he looked at the evidence bag he’d brought up with him from Lewis’ car. Right, time to focus on work and get everything bagged, tagged and shipped over to forensics.

*

Once again Lewis was awoken by the phone ringing. This time it was Hobson.

“Robbie! I know you said ‘later’, but it is two days later. God knows, I’m a patient woman, but when the hell did you plan to tell me what was going on?”

“Uh? Laura? What time is it?”

“It’s 6am. Don’t pretend to be having a bank holiday lie in; I know full well you have a murder to solve. Well?”

“Well what?”

“What’s going on with James Hathaway? I’ve heard all kinds of rumours, but frankly...”

Lewis sat up in bed properly, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “They were probably all true,” he interrupted her.

“All of them?”

“What have you heard?”

“That he’s either been beaten up and/or raped. Or gang raped. Or multiple raped. That it was drug assisted or date rape. It all depends on who’s telling the story, and to what shock or relish they give it. They can’t all be true, can they?”

“Yes, sadly. All true.”

“God! How can you just say it like that? You sound so flippant!”

“Well, er...” Lewis was now prowling his flat, looking for any evidence of James.

“Is he there?”

“No. That is to say, he’s staying over but he appears to have gone to work. We had a major find in forensics yesterday evening. He’ll have gone to bag and tag it. No doubt, your lot will be getting the bloods later today.”

“Don’t change the subject!”

“This is hard for me Laura. I’m not flippant. Bloody hell, you should see his bruises.”

“Is he okay?”

“What do you think?”

“Robbie?”

“It’s always hard to tell with James, isn’t it? God knows I’m not exactly forthcoming, but James? I really don’t know.”

“Tell me. Date rape? James? James?”

“Met a Russian guy who, I quote, ‘seemed quite nice but he must have put something in my tea’.”

“James doesn’t even drink tea. Met him where?”

“Some club on its gay night.”

“That really doesn’t sound like James.”

“No.”

Hobson was silent, listening to Lewis breathe, thinking. “It occurs to me the boy was behaving out of character out of jealously.”

Lewis shut down, not wanting to contemplate it, so he snapped, “I feel bloody responsible enough as it is. No, I had thought about that. He was actually looking for a friend, who when he found him, taunted him.”

“James, having a friend who’d bully him into the arms of some sicko... Why does that not surprise me?”

“Yeah, well...”

“Fancy meeting me here for breakfast? If you’ve got to support him you could do with someone to talk to. I can’t see you talking to Lyn about this one.”

*  
Meanwhile, before Hathaway got stuck into the evidence bags in their office he stood up, and before he could even think about stopping himself he went to the bathroom to make himself sick. After he’d got rid of all the cake and coffee he stared at himself in the mirror, horrified at his own behaviour. He didn’t do this any more, hadn’t for years, not for almost ten years, since he’d entered the seminary. He really needed to pull himself together.

He continued to stare at himself, tracing the bruising on his face with his finger, the first time he’d really examined himself. No wonder people kept staring at him in horror or sympathy. He hadn’t shaved for two days. The black eye had spread, almost touching the swollen cheek and purple and black forehead. His lip was split and swollen. On the other side of his face, the right, there was less bruising, but scoured marks, as if fingers and finger nails had been pushed into his cheek. How could he not remember at all what they’d done to him? Had he screamed? Had he cried? Had he pleaded with them to stop? Had he even been conscious?

He drew his finger down to his neck, undoing his tie and collar, examining more bruised scratches and gouges, and ‘love bites’ – as if there had been anything loving about what had happened. Suddenly he felt wetness ooze out him, as he started to bleed again. He punched the mirror and groaned, letting his knees buckle and curled up, arms over his head. He let out a strangled sob.

He couldn’t deal with this!

*

When Hobson finally, already in her green scrubs, arrived at the Level 3 refectory in the JR2 Lewis was just finishing his last piece of bacon and chasing his last bit of yolk with his last piece of toast. He’d already got through two mugs of tea.

Hobson plonked down her museli and coffee and sat down “Sorry about this Robbie, had to go to my office first. Your boy’s an early riser. Bags of blood soaked clothes biked over before 6am this morning. You were right, lucky find. I can tell you this, off the record, the blood is most likely to be Professor Charles’.”

“Didn’t doubt it wasn’t. And he’s not my boy.”

“Aha! But you wouldn’t say no.”

Lewis sighed.

“Sorry. The more I think about it the more convinced I am this is our fault. If we’d not gone out he wouldn’t have either.”

“What are you saying Laura?”

“He was jealous.”

“Of what?” Lewis was really getting annoyed. Gossiping about James was wrong, but he’d already been blaming himself, if he’d not taken Laura Hobson out, if they’d gone to the Trout, got a curry and a couple of DVDs like any Friday James would have been safe on his sofa.

“Of me, of course,” Hobson answered matter of fact.

“S’pose.” Lewis stared out of the window at the roof garden, well concrete flat roof, few sickly plants in pots and three broken chairs. He didn’t really want to admit to himself that his sergeant had very probably been in love with him for a very long time. He’d worked so hard at ignoring it.

“Robbie?” Hobson put her hand on his.

“The man who found the clothes and stuff,” he began, still staring out of the window, watching a pigeon peck at a cigarette butt, “he, well, he was very disturbed, another homeless nut case. He knew James. From when they were kids at Crevecoeur.”

“Yes?”

“He called James a whore.”

“Ah. That’s won’t have helped anything. It comes to trial soon, doesn’t it?”

“And my bitch,” concluded Lewis, ignoring Hobson’s interjection.

“And that made you feel – what?”

“Disgusting phrase. Wanted to rip his head off. Had to be polite, take his statement, thank him,” Lewis replied, empty of feeling.

“The evidence is a major step forward.”

“I know.” Lewis continued to stare out of the window for a while longer, silent. Suddenly he began speaking, in an uncharacteristic monotone, carefully controlling his emotions,

“He was tied up. Two men. Multiple rapes. Beaten. Orally raped. They used things too... Well, forensics say an iron bar. He doesn’t remember a thing. I looked at the evidence sheets from the duty doctor in the rape suite. Wish I bloody hadn’t.” Lewis sniffed and angrily brushed away a tear. He still stared out of the window, blankly not seeing anything.

Hobson put her hand to her mouth.

“He’s in a lot of pain, but he’s at work, like nothing happened.”

“Well, that’s our James. Shut it out and deny it.”

Lewis turned to look at Hobson. There were tears in his eyes. “Oh Laura. I’ve made a right pig’s ear of this. I took too long to face up to stuff. Now it’s too late.” He covered his face with his hands.

“It’s never too late. At the moment he needs a friend. But he’ll recover and you’ll be there won’t you?”

“Recover in the way he did from being abused as a kid, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s bloody celibate!”

“That’s a Catholic thing. That’s a he was nearly a bloody priest thing. That’s a Sodom and Gomorrah, Leviticus ‘it’s an abomination and they should be put to death’ thing. At least he’s not a charismatic or evangelical or he’d be expecting to have his homosexuality driven out of him by the Holy Spirit. Happened to a friend of mine. Came up out of the Baptism waters, still fancied men, had a complete nervous breakdown and was in Littlemore for two years.”

“Is he okay now?”

“Lives with a dentist out in Garsington. Bloody good social administrator, here at the JR. Faith took a battering, though.”

“Well, so did mine. When I lost Val, you know...”

“How I envy you. Something to lose. I belong to the great ranks of ‘not sure, not certain, dunno, maybe’ agnostics. My friend, he’s a Quaker now.”

“So, still a God botherer.”

“In a very gentle, quiet way.”

“Couldn’t do that. If I ever, you know, went back. Me Mam brought me up a Methodist. I need hymns!”

“And James?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he still goes to mass, but I don’t know. Hard to tell with James. This time you changed the subject.”

“No I didn’t. I’m saying, have faith. In James. In you. It’ll work out.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I am.” She smiled at Lewis and squeezed his hand. He smiled back. “In the meantime, I’ve got to get to work, you have murderers – plural – to find.” She stood up, gathering cups, plates and cutlery on to the tray.

“Maybe. In the meantime, I’ve got to restrain myself from going down to the custody suite and killing those Russian bastards with my bare hands.”

“If you lose it, make sure I get the bodies. It’ll be obvious to me the injuries were accidental or self-inflicted. Alright?” And she left. Lewis sincerely hoped she was joking, but with Laura, you could never tell.

*

Ngoti was going through the CCTV footage from the streets around the entrance to Lady Julian College, as well as its back and side doors. He was getting a bit obsessed, but he was convinced that it would show him something. He still had his suspicions about the four women. They appeared three times at the college from approximately 10:30pm until just before midnight. The cameras near the collage all went down at two am, which seemed suspiciously convenient, but he was assured but the techies that no one could launch a virus or hack into the system and take out just three cameras. The system itself wasn’t as sophisticated as all that, let alone any counter devices. Four women, who could, possibly be the same women, turned up on the Woodstock Road at 4.28am, trying to hail a cab. It looked like they were unsuccessful. Ngoti wanted to follow their progress up the Woodstock Road and where to next? But he supposed he ought to run it by his boss before he pushed on.

It was while he was watching, yet again, the women escort the victim, drunk, back to his college, when Sophie Mercer peeped over his shoulder.

“Oh, wow! That’s my old sociology lecturer from Brighton Uni!” she exclaimed. “Are they suspects? Alice Sayer was too gentle, seemed too frightened of her own shadow. Pushy students used to walk all over her.”

“Really? Bet you were one Sophie,” said Ngoti, a smile breaking his serious frown. He always looked serious; Sophie had never seen him smile before. “I had better leave a note for the Inspector. This one, she is a DI from Manchester so she is –” Ngoti’s voice dripped with sarcasm “- apparently, obviously – out of the frame.”

“Well, no one likes the idea of a bad cop, you know? You’ve been at this CCTV stuff all morning. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Okay, but ask Sergeant Hathaway if he needs anything. He’s been at his desk since before I came in, and I’ve been here since 8am. Where have you been Sophie?”

“Oh, still interviewing the family. He had loads of great nieces and a nephew. His nibs wants all the statements.”

“Hooper does, you mean?”

“Hey, think Hooper might get his get promotion? Just before he retires. Funny, eh? Will you ask Hathaway please Ngoti? I don’t know what to say. It creeps me out a bit. I know it’s not his fault, but...”

“Call me Muhammad, please. My friends do. I will ask him, sure, but you should chill a bit. What do you think of this?”

Ngoti showed Sophie the CCTV footage of Hathaway and Sergei.

Sophie covered a laugh with her hand over her mouth. Swallowing it back, she whispered, “He’s a poof. He’s flirting like crazy. What a total girl.”

Ngoti arched his eyebrow, not wanting to disapprove of Sophie who was possibly the most beautiful English girl he had ever met. “Did you say you studied in Brighton?” he asked dryly.

“Oh God! I didn’t mean anything bad! Most of my mates were at uni, gay I mean, and they’d talk like that. Probably in the same way you’d call yourself a n-”

Ngoti put up a hand. “Please do not say that word. British West Indians and American rap artists may – in ignorance – use such a word. I never would, and I doubt any African would. It has too much historical connection to slavery and colonialism for my liking. Africa is still paying,”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so ignorant and stupid sometimes. And what I mean about –” Sophie nodded her head towards Hathaway “- is why is he in work? Why not go sick?”

“And be alone? With his thoughts and imagination?”

“Don’t you mean memories?”

“Rohypnol, Sophie.”

“Shit. You still want lunch with me or you just think I’m an ignorant cow now?”

“No. Lunch would be nice, actually.” Ngoti smiled and then got up and knocked of the office door. “Sir, Mercer and I are going for some lunch. Can we bring you anything?”

“No. No, you’re alright. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You must eat Sir.”

“I’ve got chocolate,” Hathaway said, vaguely waving at all his presents.

“You need good food, too.”

“Maybe later.”

“If you’re sure.” Ngoti left, followed by Sophie Mercer.

“See? Creepy?” Sophie whispered in the corridor. “He’s too controlled. Have you read the doc’s forensic report? The bastards.”

“I did not see it because it is not my business, Sophie. And every person must deal with their trauma and unhappiness in their own way.”

Sophie remembered Muhammad was a refugee from a brutal war zone in Africa and wisely shut up.

*

After Ngoti and Mercer had left, forensics phoned. Only Hathaway was in the office, so he took the call. He immediately phoned his boss with the news, only to be told to deliver it in person.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the college, but meet me at Morton’s on the Broad. I’ll buy you lunch.”

“I’m not hungry Sir.”

“You’ll eat James. It’s a bloody order.”

“We’re not in the army Sir.”

*

Lewis had seats outside so Hathaway could smoke. Hathaway sat down opposite his boss, only to have a bowl of the soup of the day pushed towards him.

“It’s Spring Vegetable. Hobson tells me you’ll probably be struggling to digest food, but soup is good. Nice and gentle.”

“And how would Hobson know?” Hathaway spat out.

“She’s a doctor, it’s compulsory in a pathologist. Who’d have thought, eh? And she read the forensics on you.”

Sniffily, Hathaway raised his voice and demanded archly, “Is there anyone who hasn’t?”

“Dunno. Doubt it. It’s coz we care James.”

“Maybe in your case, sir.” Hathaway sighed and picked up the spoon and tried a sip or two. “Not bad,” he said cagily.

“Good lad. Can’t have you fainting. Now, what have you got for me?”

“The blood is Professor Charles. The suits are standard police issue, scene of crime, with Manchester CID stamped inside, but...”

“I can’t believe one of our own...”

“Maybe her car was broken into Sir? We don’t know yet why she was in Oxford.”

“Innocent’s arranging for someone in Manchester to take a statement. They should e-mail it by late afternoon.”

“Oh. And this too, Sir.” Hathaway passed Lewis Ngoti’s note.

“Yeah, I know about this. Ngoti phoned me just before you did. Which is why, as soon as you’ve finished your soup, we’re off to Brighton.”

Hathaway scowled into his soup. Lewis smiled a sad smile at his sergeant. James really wasn’t himself.

 

*

Lewis and Hathaway first went to Brighton University’s campus, but were told by the Sociology department secretary that Alice Sayer was at home, it being a Bank Holiday, and directed them to a small modern semi at the back of Prestwood Park. The front of the house was a definite anywhere, anywhen street, but Alice led them through to her living room, a huge room at the back of the house, with open French windows over looking a magnificently kept downwards sloping garden with beautiful views over the back of the Park and Manor and down onto the London Road and up to the train line. Too far to see the sea, though.

“Thames Valley CID, eh? A long way from home? What can I do to help, Inspector? Sergeant? Can I get you a cup of tea or something?”

Alice Sayer seemed to be composed and in control, with nothing to hide, just bemused and over anxious to be helpful, a common enough reaction in the middle class intelligentsia.

“Please. Two sugars. But I’m sure my sergeant would prefer coffee, if you have some. No sugar, lots of milk. Ta.”

With an embarrassed giggle Alice left. Lewis sat on the sofa. Hathaway prowled the room, examining the books, CDs, DVDs and photos. None of children, interestingly, for a woman in her early forties, even if she didn’t have any of her own, surely nieces or nephews, godchildren, children of friends? There was a photo in pride of place with Alice in a white lacy dress on the arm of another woman with short spiky dyed pink and purple hair in a tie-dye dress and black doc martins with roses embroidered on them. Confetti was in their hair. A small snap of Alice and three women, a woman Hathaway thought looked familiar, a tall woman with cascades of curly brown hair with a woman with shorter brown hair in an expensive looking designer dress, something feminine and flounsy, and a hard faced woman dressed in a pink skirt suit and high pink heeled shoes. Hathaway couldn’t place why she seemed familiar. The CDs and DVDs were eclectic and typical, the books heavy on sociology, the social sciences in general as well as old, battered stuff from the eighties on women’s studies, feminism and gay rights. Over the fake fire place a huge abstract painting.

“My Lucy did that,” Alice said, coming in carrying a heavy tray with pots of tea and coffee, a sugar bowl, a milk jug, chunky pottery mugs and a plate of some very heavy looking homemade flapjacks. Lewis jumped up and took the tray.

“Is this Lucy?” asked Hathaway, indicating the hippie woman in the main picture.

“Oh yes. She’s wonderfully clever, a proper artist. She even has a painting in the museum, and she’d not even dead,” Alice giggled at her lame joke, or perhaps it was Lucy’s joke. The decor of the living room, the whole house properly, judging from what Hathaway had seen, had this hippie artist’s taste stamped heavily all over it.

“Was this your Civil Partnership ceremony?” Hathaway asked, curious, strangely blushing, although Alice didn’t notice, not with the bruises, which she had been trying not to stare at. Weirdly, she’d thought she’d recognised him as soon as she’d opened the door, but then he and his Inspector had produced their police badges and all thoughts of recognition had been driven out of her head.

Lewis stared at Hathaway, curious at the blush. Catholic disapproval? Catholic guilt? Hathaway caught his gaze and lowered his eyelashes. Ah, secret desire, then? Out of habit Lewis instantly forgot he’d noticed. He politely accepted a cup of tea and reached for a flapjack, regretting his politeness as soon as he took a bite.

“We’re hoping you may be able to assist us in a murder enquiry Ms Sayer. You and your friends have been seen on CCTV cameras several times near Lady Julian College, the first time escorting our victim home.”

“Who? What?”

“Professor Sebastian Charles.”

Alice started to shake and dropped her mug. Hathaway immediately leapt to his feet to assist.

“Why does his name startle you, Ms Sayer?”

“Did you not know he was dead?” asked Lewis.

“No, no I didn’t. Sorry. It’s just that man...”

Hathaway’s phone rang. “Hathaway.” He looked at Lewis, who nodded. He wandered out of the room, listening intently.

“Sorry. It’s just that, when I was up at Oxford, that man made my life hell. Really.” She stared into her fresh mug of tea.

“Go on.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t, I...” She was very shaken. She searched for a distraction. “Forgive me, is your sergeant alright? Those injuries, well they don’t look like he got them making an arrest or something, they look like, well, it’s the finger bruises, the scratches, the bites, they look...” she looked down, red in the face. “I saw his wrists,” she whispered.

“Yeah, you’re probably right, if you’ve guessed he was raped. He probably shouldn’t be at work.”

“Well, what’s the alternative eh? Just sitting at home, thinking. Seb raped me, loads of times, told me he’d get me sent down if I told the Counsellor or the police. And she was so perceptive, I kind of wondered if she knew, but why turn a blind eye to that? She was so good and honourable, that... If you came to me 10 years ago Inspector, I would honestly have told you I wanted him dead.”

“But you don’t now?”

“No. No I don’t. I certainly did not kill him.” She stared straight into Lewis’ eyes.

Hathaway came back in, but asked for the bathroom. Alice directed him upstairs, not seeming to realise or care he would probably have a good look throughout the house.

“If you hated him so much, if he put you through so much...?”

“I have finally found some peace, Inspector.” She smiled at her ‘wedding’ photo. “Lucy gives me that.”

“Why were you in Oxford? How come you were recorded with this man?”

“I met up with some friends, some fellow alumna. We meet up once or twice a year. We bumped into Seb, we’d all been taught by him. He seemed like a sad, ridiculous, if creepy, old man. It gave some closure, Inspector. I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t us,” concluded Alice is a rush, looking down, concentrating on pouring Hathaway a coffee.

“Why did you go back?”

“Uh? Did we? Let me think.”

Hathaway returned, looking pale.

“Okay?” asked Lewis.

Hathaway imperceptivity shook his head.

“Maddy’s ear-ring. We went to look for it. Her husband got it for her, so she was terrified about losing it. He has a bit of a temper, apparently.”

“Maddy?” asked Hathaway. “We know you, and we know DI Amanda Harding, but we would be grateful if you could provide us with the names and addresses of the other two women with you that night?”

Alice looked hard at Hathaway. Her heart ached for him, irrationally she couldn’t help feel responsible. She remembered him, she remembered the man he was with. A hard man, a Russian was it? Mandy had walked into him. “I can’t give you Maddy’s details, but I’ll call her, get her to get in touch. Her husband, you know. But the other lady, the most stunning one us, all in pink. That’s Ceris Pritchard, she lives in Cardiff, works for BBC Wales, in their marketing. I’ll write you the address.”

“Thank you.” Hathaway sat down and swallowed two pain killers with his coffee while Lewis watched, concerned. Alice, by the bureau writing Ceris’ address caught a little of the tension between the two men. She wondered if they were just work colleagues or more that just friends?

*

Rather than heading straight back for the M23 Lewis pointed the car in the direction of the city centre and the beach.

“Tell me about the call. What was it? I saw you make notes. Important, was it?”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s almost seven. Let’s call it a night, okay? Can’t come all this way and not see the bloody sea. Besides, I want me tea.”

“You’ve just had three cups Sir.”

“Dinner, then,” Lewis said pointedly.

Hathaway stared out of the window and sighed. “Remember to avoid pubs, restaurants and cafes with rainbow flags Sir.”

“I dunno. Sounds like a good idea to me. You can’t keep running away from who you are James. You can’t use what happened to retreat back in to yourself.”

“Look, Sir, it really isn’t any of your business, is it?” Hathaway snapped, anxious and confused about his boss being so clear now that he was gay. Then he remembered he’d been ‘date raped’ and there wasn’t a person in the station who didn’t know it. Besides, he’d kissed his boss, which was a bit of a giveaway, he supposed. Still, he was pretending he’d not remembered.

“Okay, no gay pubs then James.”

“Besides, wouldn’t you worry about people thinking we were together?” Hathaway couldn’t believe he’d just asked that.

“No, not particularly,” Lewis replied, upbeat. “But it obviously does you, I’m far too old for you...”

“Oh no Sir!” Hathaway interrupted insistently.

Got you! thought Lewis. “So, if you’re worried about dates, we’d better not go to a restaurant at all.” Lewis continued driving past the Pavilion, missing the turn into North Street and past the Old Steine and turned down the Marine Parade, looking for somewhere to park.

Hathaway looked out of the window, originally to hide his blushes, but soon he was just staring out at the sea, the late afternoon, early evening sun scattering yellow and white sparkles onto a floorless blue sea reflecting the cloudless sky.

Lewis parked opposite the Volks Railway and got out. Hathaway followed, instantly lighting up. Lewis bounced down the steps to the beach, heading for one of the many fish and chips shops.

Once sitting on the shingle, the pier on their right, Lewis asked again about the phone call. He handed James a bag of chips before attacking his own fish and chips.

“Two things, DI Harding has been contacted and says that when she returned to her car at around 5am her car had been broken into and she may had had scene suits in there. She’d certainly had guns that two kids who knew her had handed to her in Moss Side but she’d not wanted to go back to the station, she was running late to meet her alumna for their girls’ night out.”

“So, she confirms Alice Sayer’s story?”

“Yes, Sir. Even to the point about going back for a friend’s ear-ring.”

“Okay. Strange to not report the break in when she’s a cop.”

“Embarrassed about leaving the guns instead of taking them straight back to the station?”

“Could be. Anything else?”

“Yes. Ngoti managed to get hold of the night porter. He’s very confused, can’t remember half his shift. He remembers the four women bringing the victim home, then coming back to see if they could look around their old college, then coming back a third time to look for a gold ear-ring. After that he’s a bit hazy, but swears he didn’t go to sleep. He’s been a bit woozy since. His wife thinks he’s had a bug of some kind.”

“Bit convenient, isn’t it?”

“Or coincidence, Sir?”

“Maybe.” Lewis lapsed into a thoughtful silence, eating fish and chips.

Hathaway unwrapped his chips and sniffed them, before staring out to sea. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky, but it was still at least an hour before sunset.

“Are you going to eat those?”

“I’d rather not, no.”

“Eat it, James, or I’ll bloody force you.”

Hathaway stared at his boss, startled. He sounded serious. He also knew that he may be taller and younger, but if it came to a fair fight, Robbie Lewis would win hands down. He’d rather not put it to the test. He forced himself to eat five chips before giving up and walking towards the shoreline, lighting another cigarette. Discreetly, he walked along the shore until he was under the pier.

Lewis watched, scowling as he saw Hathaway surreptitiously make himself sick. He sighed. At least he’d got the soup in the lad.

When Hathaway returned, Lewis had helpfully finished his chips and didn’t mention anything about food.

Lewis watched Hathaway sit down awkwardly, not even bothering to hide how much pain he was in. He just wanted to take the boy in his arms. He wondered why Hathaway didn’t just go sick. He must have family he could stay with; even if didn’t have any close friends. He sighed before deciding to ignore everything. It was obviously the way Hathaway wanted it.

“So, what do you think about Sayer? She hiding anything? A possible?”

“What do you think Sir?”

“She seemed too sweet and pathetic to do anything so disgusting.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But maybe she’s hiding something or someone? Protecting them?”

“We’ve been down this road before James. And we were wrong then.”

“I know Sir, but she was rattled when you mentioned Charles’ name, wasn’t she?”

“Well, the guy repeatedly raped her for three years, didn’t he? Imagine how you’d feel?”

“I don’t really have to imagine, do I?” Hathaway snapped, before getting up and walking back down to the sea, further out than his last time. There was now damp, grey sand exposed, sticking to his shoes. Lewis came down to join him, pebbles in his pocket, and began throwing them out to sea.

“Sorry, pet.”

“’Sokay.”


	7. TUESDAY EARLY MORNING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewis takes Sophie to London. Hathaway is met by Hobson at hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

Lewis woke, early in the morning; sure something must have woken him up. The sun was already up; it was about 5am according to his alarm. Something warm was pressed into his side. He lifted the quilt. James was curled up in a foetal ball yet again, thumb in his mouth, his back to Lewis. Maybe he should do as Laxton suggested and order him to get counselling. Not that Lewis had any faith in such people. Lewis gently eased James out of his tight curl and pulled him into his arms, expecting to him wake him. However, James had taken the last sedative the hospital had provided, and was sound asleep. Lewis stroked James’ hair and kissed the back of his neck, before he’d really thought about it.

Feeling terrible about himself, he yawned and fell asleep. He’d done a lot of driving last night.

*

James woke up at about 6am, startled to find his boss curled around him, or rather, startled to feel his boss’ hard on pressing into the top of the back of his thigh. He lay awake, staring at the light shining through the curtains, hardly daring to breathe. He must have sleepwalked here again. His boss – Lewis – Robbie was probably dreaming of his dead wife. Or Dr. Hobson. Or anyone female, he supposed.

Not him. Couldn’t be him.

Lewis’ breathing tickled the back of his neck. It was nice. Better than nice.

James sighed. He really couldn’t stay here another night. He couldn’t bear this, so close to his dreams, so far away and unobtainable at the same time. He drifted back into a dreamless, sedated sleep.

*

At just before 7am Lewis awoke for a second time to find James’ head on his chest, arm and long leg wrapped over him. He lay there loving the half forgotten sensation of waking to a warm body, the sensation of someone you loved curled around you. He stroked James hair, trailing his fingers down the side of his face, gently touched the cheek, so scratched and covered in minute bruising, in a way more disturbing that the battered side of his face, and down his neck, definitely a male neck, so different to anything he’d been used to before.

Did it bother him?

No.

But James, so uptight and guilt ridden before this, so tortured by his faith and whatever had led to his expulsion from the seminary, so maimed and afraid by his childhood at Crevecoeur, was now so out of reach it hurt. How could he help James recover without it seeming less than altruistic? Because now he’d been honest with himself about his feelings for his sergeant – Hathaway – James, all he could think about was kissing the breath out of him, about bending the boy over his desk and fucking him senseless, until he couldn’t walk. If he was honest with himself. Now he was honest with himself.

Yet. Yet not only that. He wanted him, yes. But wanted to protect him, look after him.

Protect him. It was too late for that, wasn’t it?

James stirred into his sleep, tightened his hold on Lewis and sighed something that could have been Sir.

Lewis carefully disentangled himself and headed for the shower, turning it as cold as he could bear. The last thing he needed was James to wake up and see lust in his boss’ eyes. Lewis wasn’t a fool, he knew the scars were not just the bruises and the rope burns, sex was off the menu not just due to emotional trauma. Yes, there were other options, probably, but Lewis had been straight all his life, and if couldn’t have the boy properly, then he would wait. He couldn’t trust himself.

He went into the office, surprised to find Ngoti and Mercer already there. Ngoti, yes, he kept almost as many hours as James, and would have been promoted by now if his immigration status wasn’t still undecided, but Mercer, who normally arrived just after nine, bleary eyed and screaming for coffee? Ngoti was back with traffic cameras and CCTV and Mercer was on a computer, on the ’net. Lewis looked over her shoulder.

“Facebook? I hope this is work, Sophie?”

“Oh yes Sir,” she giggled nervously. Ngoti looked over his shoulder at her, slight disapproval on his face. “I’ve found the four women Mo found from the CCTV. Look, they’re friends. Good friends. They’ve got their own private discussion, which I can’t access, but you need these ones – pinkceris and maddy39. Trying to get their real names.”

“No need. I have Ceris Pritchard’s address and work place.”

“Hooper left you a note with Maddy’s Sir. It’s on your desk. She phoned last night,” Ngoti informed him.

Lewis went to retrieve the note. “Right, Sophie. Get your bag. We’re going to London. To Fulham, to interview Madeline Stewart. You’re driving.”

“What about the Serge, sir?”

“He’s not in this morning, Sophie.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool.”

*

James Hathaway sat in the waiting room at the John Radcliffe’s A&E, waiting for his follow on check up before they discharged him back to the care of his GP. He’d not bothered with a suit, knowing waiting times, he wasn’t sure if he’d make it back to work. And because of last night, he really wasn’t in a hurry to see Lewis. He was wearing black cargos, which really needed a belt, as they kept sliding down slightly and he was far too old and tasteful to be showing his purple boxers, with a turquoise hoody with frayed sleeves. He kept alternatively biting his thumbnail and chewing at the frayed green blue edges. He sighed and picked up a copy of Mizz, which just happened to be the first magazine on the pile.

“You are far to old and clever for something so frivolous, Sergeant,” said a female voice behind him.

James whipped his head round to see Hobson smiling at him. A nice smile, not the usual irritated one she seemed to keep exclusively for him. She held up her hand, bearing a Starbuck’s cup.

“Hi. I come bearing gifts. Decent coffee?”

“Thank you.” James took the cup and moved up as Hobson came round to sit next to him.

“So. How are you? Seriously?”

“I’m seriously bored. I’ve been waiting over an hour.”

“Apart from that?”

“Yeah. I’m doing okay.”

“Really?” Laura Hobson gave him a very hard stare.

Just then a nurse called James’ name to save him answering.

“I’ll wait,” Dr. Hobson said.

*

Half an hour later James emerged, looking shaken and pale. Laura Hobson leapt up and took his arm.

“Come on. I’ll get you more coffee. And something to eat.”

“I don’t want to eat.”

“Yes you do,” argued Hobson, steering him down a corridor marked staff only and out to the lifts. “Short cut,” she muttered, giving his back a gentle push to get him in the lift.

Up on Level 2 she pushed him into a chair in the WRVS coffee shop, returning after 10 minutes with chocolate brownies and coffee.

“So?” she prompted.

James shrugged.

“I’m not a threat, you know. I can be a friend, if you let me.”

James crumbled the brownie on its plate and sighed. “I have to go over to the medical centre in Cowley Road. They’re expecting me.”

“HIV test?”

“Yes.” He pushed the crumbs about, making patterns. “They won’t prescribe anymore sedatives, they say I should see my own GP. The doctor, she was really annoyed I hadn’t told her I was already taking Seroxat.”

“She had a right to be. You should have. Did she give you more painkillers?”

“She’d already given me enough for two weeks.”

“And are you a lot of pain, James?” Hobson tilted her head, trying for sympathetic. She didn’t really have a good bedside manner, her patients never really needed it.

He nodded then looked up, meeting her eyes. “I don’t really know what they did to me! The forensics from the rape suite didn’t actually deal with all the bruises. This, I know what this means!” he snapped, pulling his sleeves up and showing Hobson his wrists, nasty, red, raw rope burns. Hobson pulled a face that expressed pain. “And this,” he said, pulling up the cargos to show matching injuries on his ankles. “But why? Why?” he demanded, pointed to the bruised side of his face and then lifted his top slightly to show a mass of black and blue and green. “They drugged me! It must have been a massive dose, because they got it from my bloods and urine, and you know Rohypnol never hangs around long enough to get it recorded as evidence?”

“You must have got to Robbie still under it, I should think.”

“I remember waking up, but I don’t remember quite how I got to his flat, actually.”

“Do you want me take a look?”

“What?”

“Well, I know I normally construct what has happened on dead bodies, but I could take a proper look, if you like. At all your bruises.”

James went back to playing with brownie crumbs. “Okay,” he said quietly.

They went to pathology and Hobson grabbed a side room, locking the door. James’ torso looked more as if he’d been in a car crash, more bruises than pale skin. His upper arms showed signs of being held and pulled, covered in patterns of round and striped bruises caused by fingers and hands. Likewise, the tops of his thighs and his ankles, above the rope burns. Hobson examined him one piece at a time, never suggesting his actually get properly undressed, for which James was grateful.

“Have they given you cream for the wrists and ankles?”

“Yes.”

“Using it?”

“Yeah. ’Course I am.”

“X-ray? Scan? On your abdomen and lower back?”

“Yeah. No damage inside, looks worse that it is, according to the doctor. She gives me the impression she thinks its my fault. I don’t know how I could be –”

“This is not your fault. Even if you’d been there to get drunk and look for a shag it’s not your fault. It’s never anyone’s fault, however short the skirt –” Hobson remembered who she was talking to and corrected herself, “- or how tight the jeans.”

“I was so unhappy and he seems so sweet, he made me feel safe,” James said in such a small voice Hobson barely heard him. She surprised herself by briefly hugging him.

“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t a date. Robbie and I are just friends,” she said in a rush. Where the conversation would have gone, she didn’t know as her pager bleeping just as Hathaway’s phone rang interrupted her.

“Hathaway.

“What? Where?

“Uh-huh

“Well, you’ll just have to attend with Hooper.

“No. I can’t. I’m at hospital.”

“Same body as mine? Hit and run?” asked Hobson when Hathaway had ended his call.

“Lady Julian’s night porter.”

“Oh. Got to go. Sorry James.” She briefly, awkwardly, hugged him again. This time he hugged back.

*

Hooper stood, scratching the back of his head, standing over the body and Hobson. Meanwhile, Ngoti was by the hedge with a young uniform officer, also black, but being British born with West Indian parents, seemed so pale compared to East African born Ngoti. He had just found the porter’s bike, obviously thrown in to hide it. No hit and run would have got rid of the bike.

Hobson was convinced the car had been reversed back over him, the bike got out of the way and then he’d been driven over several times, just to make sure. This was someone who enjoyed killing. The body was such a mess, even Hobson felt vaguely sick. Everyone present except Hobson and Ngoti had come close to passing out.

The road, a county road running up from Blackbird Leys to the village of Garsington was only busy during rush hour, so the porter, whose shift finished at nine had been on his way home and must have been killed after that, once the rush of traffic had died to nothing, not even a tractor. Needless to say, no witnesses, not even a farm nearby.

*

Lewis turned the stereo up on the way back, selecting Wagner, knowing who he was turning into, but he was never, ever taking Mercer out with him again. The girl was sweet, sharp, clever, but she could talk the hind legs off a donkey. The endless, mind blowing boring drivel about her family and her theories on the murder and on Muhammad Ngoti’s past, which was even more depressing to contemplate than James’. When she started on her 19 theories on Maddy's answers and demeanour on the way back to Oxford, Lewis had snapped and switched from Classic FM to his MP3 player and selected Wagner. Mercer had vocally objected to such weird music and Lewis winced inwardly as he heard himself snap,

“My car, my music constable.”

He’d then stared out of the window pointedly and thought about Maddy Stewart, bruises under foundation and chiffon blouse. She too admitted to suffering the same attentions from Charles as a student. She claimed that they had gone to Oxford to see if they could see him, but to lay the demons, not kill him. They weren’t monsters.

Had DI Harding suffered the same? Had she gone into the police for justice? The woman had three commendations for bravery. She worked in Moss Side, probably one of the hardest places to police in the entire country. She couldn’t be part of such a brutal murder and disgusting mutilation, could she?

 

 

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*


	8. TUESDAY LATE AFTERNOON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hathaway gets to confront Sergei. Laxton gets her man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

Hathaway had intended to take the rest of the day off, to try to get to see his own doctor since the hospital wouldn’t give him any more sedatives and as he’d been off his prescribed antidepressants for four days he wasn’t sure what to do about them. However, with a second body, very likely connected to the Lady Julian murder, and Lewis in London, he decided he’d best return to work, after he’d gone home and dressed more appropriately and polished off the best part of a bottle of red wine.

He didn’t really provide much in the way of constructive work, however, instead he spent an hour sitting at his desk, biting his thumb and rocking slightly, thinking about his trip to the clinic in Manzil Way, off Cowley Road, not comforted by words like ‘slight risk’, ‘they wore condoms mostly according to forensics’ and thinking instead of words like ‘bleeding’ and ‘mostly’ and ‘drugs mean you can stay healthy for a long time’.

He was in this frame of mind when he was summoned by Chief Superintendent Innocent to Interview Room 3. He was shocked when he arrived, realised it was Laxton that had called him, although Innocent was in the interview room too. He couldn’t help thinking he’d been summoned to be paraded like a product, something that belonged to Thames Valley CID, a visual aid that there was no way Laxton wasn’t going to go for anything less that a full confession and conviction.

Innocent closed the door behind him and resumed her position, standing there behind the door. Laxton was prowling the room.

“DS Hathaway entered the room at 1617,” Laxton said for the tape. Then she switched it off.

Sergei Roschenkov couldn’t take his eyes off James as soon as he walked into the room. James looked like a startled rabbit. Sergei stood up.

“Why? Why you bring him in here? Is not right! Send him away!”

“You recognise him then?” demanded Innocent.

“This is highly irregular,” objected the duty solicitor. “You don’t need to say a thing,” he advised his client.

“You have evidence. You know. Is enough. What you want? Is cruel.”

Laxton pulled out a chair from the table, away from it. “Sit James, before you fall down.”

“You probably have questions, don’t you James?” Innocent said. Hathaway sat down and turned, staring at the Chief.

“I must protest...” began the solicitor.

“Five years,” began Laxton. “One conviction for abduction and rape for both of you or five years of assaults, rapes and murders to which you are an accessory but not the assailant. Do you understand me? Five bloody years we’ve been trying to nail your brother! Do you understand?” Laxton thumped the table, shouting.

“Or do you need a translator after all?” asked Innocent.

“Why is the tape off?” demanded the solicitor.

“This is restitution,” replied Innocent, leaning on the door.

“This is highly –” he began.

“You bet it is!” Innocent shouted. “This isn’t any victim, this is one of my best DSs! Ask your questions James.”

“Sergei, I think they want you to testify against your brother,” Hathaway pointed out helpfully, at a loss to think what to say, confused at how he wasn’t afraid of Sergei, how he actually felt sorry for him.

“This wasn’t your usual MO – uh, way you behave,” supplied Laxton. “We have your DNA from DS Hathaway, but all other victims across four countries over five years only have your brother’s DNA.”

Sergei’s head snapped up

“Do you understand? DNA?”

“Yes. How you know?”

“We’ve already shared our forensics with Interpol, did you think we wouldn’t?” Innocent answered.

“We know your brother was your guardian, that he was dishonourably discharged from the Russian Army five years ago,” added Laxton.

“He was captured. Chechen rebels. They do bad things to him. His body. His mind. He almost kill commanding officer when he rescued. He not right in head. He like father to me since our parents die. I get him what he need. Them or me.” He turned to look at Hathaway. “I sorry. Very sorry. I realise mistake on bus, but it too late. You or me. I find no one in Newcastle or Manchester. Here, that night, or me, Yuri say.”

“Why? Why do this? Why hurt me? You drugged me,” Hathaway demanded.

“You fight us. You scream, kick, hit, bite. Yuri, he hit you and hit you to stop you, shut you up. We have to take truck from park to countryside, you scream so much. I find your police identity paper, I say to Yuri, dump him, dump him now, but Yuri, he hit you more. I get more drug, I mix with vodka and make you drink. You stop fighting but you still scream and then you cry and I can’t stand it. I remember what you say on bus. I not let Yuri take your virginity, I take...”

James looked down, blushing, as he felt Innocent, Laxton and the solicitor all struggle to contain their curious stares.

“...Yuri think it funny. It small thing. I so sorry.”

“Will you testify against your brother? For every crime here, in the UK, as well as France, Germany and Poland? And Russia, too, although we don’t know about those?” Laxton asked.

“I not remember all!” shouted Sergei. “I try forget. I remember most when I not find someone, I remember that.”

“Try,” demanded Innocent. “Try. With you being a victim too, a judge will probably be lenient with you, even with the other crimes. Otherwise, it’s just the one case, with James here, and you look just as guilty as far as our forensic evidence goes.”

“I tell you all I remember. English prison better than Russian, heh? Yuri get help?”

“Sure,” said Laxton, walking up to Innocent. “Sounds like we need to get a psyche assessment too.”

“Broadmoor for life, I would guess,” agreed Innocent. “Thank you James. Go on.”

Hathaway got up to leave.

“I so sorry,” Sergei said again.

For the first time in his adult life Hathaway struggled with something other than four very specific verses of the Bible. ‘Forgive so you may be forgiven’? Not possible, was it?

“I don’t think it was your fault,” he said evenly, before leaving. Innocent followed him out.

“My office, now James,” she said.

“Ma’am.” Last place on Earth he wanted to go.

*

Meanwhile, Hooper and Davis were getting very angry at Lewis and Innocent’s – particularly Innocent’s - dismissal of the overwhelming evidence mounting over the four women Ngoti had found on CCTV just because one woman was a highly decorated police officer from Manchester.

They gathered everything they had, typed it, printed it and stormed off to her office, determined to make her listen. So angry, fed up and determined were they, they walked straight past Innocent’s secretary and into her office, startled to see DS Hathaway sitting in her office, a bunch of screwed up used tissues on his lap.

“If it’s true, James, it doesn’t count. Not that. Could it possibly be true? It’s a long time since you left the seminary.”

“That doesn’t alter the fundamental fact that it is a sin. Ma’am.”

“Oh bullshit. Sorry, I don’t been to undermine your faith, but bullshit.” Innocent looked up, wondering what the kafuffle was outside her door. She stood up.

“Constable Hooper! Davis! What the hell are you doing...?”

“Ma’am. Forgive the intrusion, but with the serge indisposed and the inspector not listening we want you to look carefully at this evidence.” Hooper held out the bundle of documents and photos.

“James? What is this about?”

Hathaway sniffed, and shrugged.

“James, go home. Alec, you had better tell me what this is about.”

Hathaway stood to leave, crumbling the tissues into a ball and lobbing them into the bin by the desk.

“James. Remember what I said. Think about counselling. You’re in court in less than three weeks for your childhood sexual abuse, don’t forget that.”


	9. WEDNESDAY, EARLY MORNING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewis goes to Cardiff. James' memory returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

By eleven Tuesday night James was beginning to regret not staying over with Lewis. He’d not seen him all day, as he’d already gone home by the time Lewis had returned from London. Lewis had phoned as soon as he’d got home, finding all James’ gear and his guitar gone, but apart from stuttering it was impossible to stay, James had said nothing.

“If you’re sure, pet. I’m here for you if you need me,” Robbie Lewis had said so gently that James had immediately hung up because he’d burst into tears. He’d spent the last three days crying more than he had the previous 24 years. He was beginning to think it wasn’t even the recent rape that was causing the tears. Or even the dichotomy between his very real and painful unrequited love and overwhelming lust for his boss and the equally real terror of hell.

No. The tears were ones he’d unshed for years, bitten back and swallowed from six years old in the Summerhouse until he’d forgotten how to cry. And he really, really didn’t need to think of it. When he was in the witness stand, yes he’d have to. But not until then. Definitely not.

By three in the morning James really knew he’d made a mistake. He was not going to sleep and he was not going to calm down. Nothing was working. Wine, cigarettes, guitar, TV, favourite music, books, poetry, favourite DVDs, hot bubble baths, hotter showers, housework...

Four am saw him curled up on his bedroom floor with his arms over his head rocking. He seriously needed to get himself together. He got up, grabbed a pair of tracky bums and hoody and pulled them over his pjs and left, heading for the custody suite.

The custody sergeant let him in and allowed him to look through the hatch at Yuri Roschenkov but had returned immediately to his desk and called DI Laxton.

James looked and looked at the man asleep on his bunk, an older, heavier version of Sergei, shorter, stockier, scarier? More bruised that James, more bruised than Sergei had been in the interview room, and he’d been pretty battered. No memories stirred, he felt nothing, remembered nothing.

“James?”

James turned around. “Inspector Laxton. Ma’am.”

“Angie will do. Come on, come up to my office and I’ll get you some tea. Or coffee. Whatever.”

“So, “ Laxton said in her office. “How are you doing? No sign of any memory?”

“No. Nothing.”

“You may have to face the fact that it will never return. Especially in light of what we were told, that they gave you a second dose. Why won’t you let me register you on the counselling programme?”

“It won’t work.”

“You sound so definite.”

“I’ve tried, okay. My first year up at Cambridge. The church gave a lot more support and help than the student counsellor, okay? If it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, is it? Ma’am.”

“You’re my witness, my victim, so yes it is my business, regardless of the fact I’m also your superior officer. I need you together in the dock, in three weeks and whenever this one comes to court. Okay sergeant? I will get these bastards convicted, Yuri Roschenkov and Augustus Mortmaigne, alright?”

Hathaway looked down, blushing. “Ma’am,” he said, biting his lip.

*

When Lewis came into work, tired and grumpy, sleepless in a once again empty bed he found a note on his desk from Laxton, informing him she’d found Hathaway looking at his rapist in the custody suite and had got one her rape suite medics to give him a strong sleeping pill early that morning, so not to expect him in.

He also found Hooper and Davis’ paperwork for Innocent on his desk, complete with the complaint of his bias. Damn and blast them. He stormed out. Time to see the last woman, witness or prime suspect. Time to go to Wales. Alone.

On his drive down he reviewed everything in his head. Yes, Harding could be a possible, but he didn’t have to like it. Depending on what Ceris Pritchard had to say for herself, he would get Innocent to sort permission for him to go up to Moss Side, Manchester and interview her in person. Still, so far all they had was circumstantial evidence, nothing concrete and admissible in court.

Lewis took an instant dislike to Ceris Pritchard, ice cool and as hard of nails, dressed in a satin pink shift dress covered by a dark pink blazer, heeled leather knee high pink boots on her legs, admitting to nothing in her past, unlike the other two, merely confirming the story of an alumna girls night out, the meeting on Facebook and the lost ear-ring. Out of curiosity he asked also about Mandy Harding bumping into James.

“Separate inquiry,” he explained. “A drugging, abduction and multiple rape and sexual assault and battering.

Coldly Pritchard had related Mandy bumping into a pretty, tall skinny blond gay boy of about 25 –30 wearing ‘too much make up’ and ‘skin tight jeans’ in The Bear and again on the High, that time with a taller Russian man. The way she described Hathaway seemed to imply he had asked for it. It took all he had for Lewis to keep his temper.

Calmly, she confirmed Charles had been her tutor, and his death was no great loss to humanity but denied anything to do with it. Most murders were by men, weren’t they? Mandy was a policewoman, she wouldn’t have been party to murder even it had crossed the others minds, would she?

Matching stories alibi-ing each other and circumstantial evidence and a decorated cop one of the four. Very shaky and highly unlikely. Back to square one, and a very long drive back down the M4.

*

The four DCs were clustered around the computer VDU on Ngoti’s desk, yet again trying to find some clue in the women’s behaviour to place them returning again to kill Charles. All were now convinced they had a cop turned killer, however hateful it seemed. Ngoti could analyse video footage forever and Hooper and Davis seemed desperate to prove something to Innocent and Lewis but Mercer was growing bored so only she noticed the sergeant return to the office, having finally been off sick for the morning and half the afternoon.

He looked a bit better for his morning off and his sleep. He’d finally shaved for a start, and that was probably because a lot of the swelling had lessened, leaving a more greeny-yellow bruising rather than the vivid purple, black and swollen red of the previous days. He’d even bothered with mascara and lip-gloss, Mercer noticed. She’d always noticed the serge often wore make-up, often more than her, but then she was often hung over and late in the mornings and was surprised the others didn’t notice or rib him about it, if they did notice. But then most of her boyfriends never seemed to notice unless she’d really gone to town, and Hathaway seemed to be an expert at barely there, perfect make-up, just giving him perfect skin and emphasising his full lips and big, blue eyes. He was so wasted being gay, and that was a fact.

Mercer smiled at him, mouthing ‘okay’. He came up to join them just as Ngoti was replaying the women’s walk down the High, bumping into Hathaway and Sergei Roschenkov.

For James’ it was if someone had exploded a river damn in his mind, his memory was overwhelmed, flooded with images and sensations and half remembered things. The bed/living area in the back of the truck; the smell of them, their truck; of screaming and screaming, struggling futilely, pleading, begging; of intense, overwhelming pain and fear; of wanting so much to die, praying to die...

Mercer was horrified. She didn’t know what to do. By the stunned look on the men’s faces, neither did they. James Hathaway had backed away from them, hands over his mouth covering a horrible noise, not quite a sob, not quite a whimper, maybe a choked scream. He went as white as a sheet, moving his hands to grab his head, pushing fingers into his hair as his knees buckled, about to faint...

Suddenly Ngoti caught him by the waist and held him up, half carrying him to a chair and pushing him to sit, pushing his head down between his legs. Ngoti squatted down, staying by his side, rubbing his back.

Mercer realised she was shaking herself. Her hand was also over her mouth, she felt sick. Her fault, she should have warned them. Hooper had said not to let the serge see it.

“Sophie. Sophie!” Hooper was calling.

“Uh? Yeah?”

“Get the serge tea. Now. Make it sweet. Nick, get to Laxton and tell her Hathaway’s got some memory back. Now, mate. Run!”

Hathaway was rocking, muttering words that made no sense, tears pouring down his face, splashing on his knees. Ngoti had given up rubbing his back and just stayed next to him, looking up at Hooper, helplessly.

“Get him some water,” Hooper said gently.

Ngoti didn’t need telling twice. He stood and went to the water cooler, allowing Hooper to get close to Hathaway and put his arms around him and hold him tight, pulling him up to hug him to his chest, stroking his hair, like comforting a distressed child.

“’Sokay, boy, ’sokay sweetheart. Worst is over now. S’sh. S’sh. You wanted to know, now, didn’t you? What happened, there.”

James nodded and held Hooper back, not really even knowing who it was, just accepting comfort from where it was given, a voice soothing and local, rural with drawn out half swallowed long vowels and full of glotteral stops, like his own family.

Ngoti came over with a glass of water and handful of loo roll.

“Are you alright sir?”

James took the glass of water, but his hand was shaking so much Hooper had to put his hands over James’.

“He’ll be alright in a bit, won’t you boy, eh?” Hooper took the water and held it to James’ lips. “Here, drink a bit, that’s right.” He put the water down and Ngoti shoved the tissues in James’ hand. “Clean yourself up a bit, sweetheart,” Hooper said.

Mercer returned with the tea, which Hooper stood up and took. Ngoti and Mercer exchanged confused glances, Hooper seemed a changed person. He was always taking the piss out of Hathaway, behind his back, to his face if he could get away with it.

James’ breathing had almost returned to normal. He sat, sipping the tea, forcing it in, like foul medicine.

“I remembered. Some of it,” he said. “Sorry.”

“We guessed,” Ngoti said dryly.

“It’s okay, you can deal now,” Hooper said.

Just then Davis returned. “Laxton wants him in Interview 1 now, to take his new statement. I’m to take him.”

“Alright with that, then?” asked Hooper. “I’ll take him. Come on then, best get it out the way, in’it?”

“Yeah, s’pose,” agreed Hathaway shakily, allowing Alec Hooper to haul him to his feet and guide him to the door, arm around his waist.

*

James sat at the table, the wrong side of it, while Laxton and a uniform WPC with a notebook and pen sat opposite him. He’d been given another cup of foul tea. He cradled it in his hands, staring at the brown liquid as if it contained the answers to all his prayers. Where was Robbie Lewis?

“Okay, James. Let’s just go through anything you can remember, and we’ll worry about putting it in the right order in a minute or two,” Laxton said gently.

“There are these women. I think they’ve got off the bus, but that can’t be right, they get on the bus I was supposed to be catching. It’s dark, getting cold. I’m cold. He said he’ll give me a lift.”

“Okay. That’s great. And then what?”

“We have to walk for ages, I can’t stop shivering. I think I’ve got a bug. We get to a lorry park; it’s where we had tea. There’s this huge truck, the plates and logos are in another alphabet. Russian, must be.”

James had his eyes closed.

“There’s this other man, he’s a lot older the Sergei, but a bit like him, only harder. They’re talking. Arguing. They pull me in to the cab, Sergei is going to drive – no, he’s just sitting in the driving seat and the other guy – Oh God! I can’t! I can’t!”

James grabbed his head again, tipping his chair back and standing, the chair skittered across the floor, the tea tipped and rolled from the table. James continued backing away until he hit the wall, and his legs buckled. He was hyperventilating, struggling to speak, to breathe...

“Louise, get Dr. Cox now!” yelled Laxton. “Shit, shit. I should have waited. James. James! Pull yourself together Sergeant, and that’s an order!” She tried, before getting on to the floor beside him and trying to get him to calm his breathing. His panic attack seemed so like an asthma attack that she was close to panic herself.

The door smacked open and Louise returned with the duty doctor who immediately opened her bag and pulled out a syringe, new needle and a bottle.

“Get his jacket off and his sleeve rolled up,” she instructed.

“How the fuck?” demanded Laxton, as she and Louise struggled with him. “James. Open your eyes. It’s DI Laxton, Angie. The doc wants to give you something to calm you down, to help you. Can you hear me?”

“I can’t give him anything unless you get that jacket off and sleeve up.”

Laxton was panicked now. “How?” she yelled. “He’s not like my usual victims, is he? He’s a bloody he and that’s just for starters! Six foot three and police trained in self defence, I am so not taking his jacket off while he’s flashing!”

“Well I can’t help then!” Cox yelled back.

“I’ll get help!” Louise said, running out of the room.

*

Half an hour later James was back at the table in Room 1, this time with milky coffee, no sugar, calm and tranxed to the point of slurring his speech.

“Why do I have to go through this now?”

“So your statement when you got some memories back matches your evidence in court. Rape is a real nightmare to get convictions, and their lawyers are so going to have a field day as it is, Southampton being a little too enthusiastic with their arrest, as for our boys, they claim they tried to escape when they fetched them and when they arrived at our custody suite, but who can tell, as CCTV mysteriously went down in Southampton half an hour before Thames Valley arrived and ours went down ten minutes before they got here.”

“I wondered where all the bruises came from,” James said numbly.

“Bloody deserved it,” said Louise.

“No,” said Laxton and James together.

“They deserve to be sent to prison, not get some bloody compensation due to ‘police brutality’,” Laxton went on.

“I can’t remember much,” James said.

“Try. In the truck cab?” she prompted.

“First he tried to kiss me, and I tried to get away, get out, and he hit me. He yelled at Sergei in Russian and they dragged me to the back, where they had a bed. I tried to fight, but I felt so ill and weird. I started to yell, to scream, and he hit me and hit me and then Sergei drove us away. It’s all hazy. I remember smells, tastes, not what happened. It’s vivid but it doesn’t make sense.”

“Try.”

James closed his eyes. “The cab smelt vile, sweat and bad meat and beer, boiled cabbage and strong, foreign cigarettes and skunk or grass. I hear myself scream but it seems outside me. I’m being hit and hit and I think I black out. I wake up and its pitch black outside, just a dim light from the cab and they’re shouting at each other again. I think it’s about my police badge. Oh God!” James put his hands over his eyes and began to shake. “He’s going to kill me!”

“No. You survived,” Laxton said firmly.

“I can’t remember anymore.”

“Yes you can,”

“No, no I can’t. Don’t make me.”

“You can. You’ve done this for me once. You were brave than. You’ll have to go through this in court, and worse, the defence will pick you apart. Were you a virgin?”

“You know I’m bloody not, you know I was bloody nine years old when he...!” James screamed in her face.

“You’re not going to survive court unless you deal with this Sergeant. Get counselling, that’s an order.”

“You’re not my boss and Robbie isn’t going to order me so...”

“What did they do to you?”

“You have the forensics.”

“I didn’t think you were a coward.”

“I really can’t remember it all. There’s gaps. I don’t remember them tying me to the bed, just that I am. Sergei says he had me first, but I don’t remember that, just the other one.” James closed his eyes. “It hurts, and he keeps hitting me as he’s.... Stop making me remember.” James put his head down and started to cry, covering his head with his arms. “You’re either being a bitch to me because I’m a man or because I’m a police office, but I bet you’re nicer to other victims.”

“Most of my drug assisted rape victims are off their face on cheap booze long before their drink is spiked and they never remember a thing and we never even get CPS to pick it up. I want that bastard convicted. Don’t you?”

“I don’t have the words, ma’am.”

“What?”

“Look, I’ve kissed three men, two women and one transsexual in my life, and that’s it, as far as consensual experience goes. How can I describe what he did to me? “

“He penetrated you anally?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Twice that I remember, but I kept blacking out and I still have holes in my memory.”

“Orally?”

James stared at her. “I don’t remember,” he whispered.

“Try,” Laxton said, gently this time.

“Oh God! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” James curled up into a ball, slipping on to the floor into a foetal position, rocking.

“Stop this ma’am before I fetch the Chief,” Louise said.

*  
Lewis finally made it back from Cardiff, having spent two sodding hours stuck in early holiday traffic at the M4/M5 junction. Fed up he just wanted to get to his office, have a cup of tea and log the Pritchard woman interview and get to James’ flat. He was storming down the corridor, head down, when Innocent popped out of her office.

“Robbie, have you got a minute?”

“Ma’am.”

Once in her office she said without preamble, “It’s James. He’s in a bad way. He got his memory back from the rape. Laxton took his statement, but pushed it. I’ve had a WPC and the medic make complaints about her treatment, but she just is desperate to get a conviction. I’m sure you understand?”

“Ma’am. Where’s James?”

“In your office. The doctor gave him an injection, something to calm him down.”

“Is that it, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” said Lewis through gritted teeth, and rushed out of his boss’ office, heading for his own, not sure what he would find or how he would cope, only knowing he had to.


	10. WEDNESDAY, EARLY EVENING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations. Questions. Resolutions. Solutions. Fluff.

James was at his desk, head down, arms over his head, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Robbie Lewis stood in his doorway for a few moments, just staring at James before speaking and walking in, closing the door behind him and also closing the blinds.

“James?”

“Sir,” James mumbled. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to...”

Robbie was at his side in an instance, wrapping his arms around James and holding him.

“It’s Robbie. I’m here for you as a friend, not just your boss.”

“Robbie,” James said experimentally, voice still a little slurred. He pushed Robbie away from him and sat up, uncurling himself and gazing at his boss with a slightly unfocused stare.

“Do you want to get out of here? It’s a lovely evening. Come and get some fresh air, pollute it with nicotine if you want. If you want to talk about anything, I’m here for you, and if you want to ignore it, then I’m happy with that. But if you’ve got your memory back there’s one thing we need to talk about James.”

James suddenly paled, then blushed. “Sir! I’m sorry, I...”

“Not here,” Robbie said firmly. “Come on, love.” He held out his hand.

*

Robbie Lewis drove them to Port Meadow, stopping to get some takeaway coffee first. They parked looking over the water and meadow, watching the horses. Surprisingly there were few people there, a mother with a small child stroking a horse and three empty cars. Still, this car park, off the beaten track, down the back of Jericho, with no brown tourist signs or mentions on a tourist map, was definitely a locals’ beauty spot. James got out of the car to smoke, but then got back in after three puffs, the sedative making it taste weird, making him feel sick. He felt woozy and faint. Of course, he’d not eaten all day. He sipped his coffee slowly and carefully, surprised that Lewis, who knew how he preferred coffee, had put not only sugar but also vanilla syrup in it, as if he knew he’d need to boost his blood sugar. Either the caffeine or the sugar calmed his stomach and head.

After sitting in silence for a while, by which time the mother and child had gone, and two fishermen had returned to their cars and driven away, Lewis broke the silence.

“So, do you remember everything? Everything that happened?”

“Not everything. Bits. Feelings. I can’t remember how I got to your flat, for instance.”

“Can you remember being at my flat?”

“Yes, I can.” James took a deep breath. “I’m sorry sir. I should never have...” He sighed, looking down. “It won’t happen again.”

“Won’t it? Are you sure you remember exactly what happened?”

“Sir?”

“It’s Robbie, I said.”

James twisted his head, still bowed, and looked through his eyelashes, confused.

“Do you remember what I said?”

James shook his head. “Sir?”

“It’s Robbie. After we kissed, what did I say?” Robbie Lewis emphasised the we as much as possible, but James didn’t notice it.

“I’m sorry,” James repeated emphatically. He was still keeping his head bowed, ashamed and embarrassed.

Robbie sighed and decided to change tack. “Why did you do it? Kiss me?”

James bit his thumbnail and sighed. “Shock sir, I think. The drugs in my system. I remember wanting to get rid of the taste, the feel... I’m so sorry sir. Please forgive me. Don’t send me away, please. It won’t happen again, I promise. I guarantee it!” James finished on a definite note.

“And what if I bloody want it to happen again?”

James’ head snapped up. “Sir?” His eyes widened, his pupils dilated but his hugged himself, coffee cup still in one hand.

“Just drop the sir will you? It’s Robbie here.”

James stared, speechless.

“And I don’t think you remember the kiss at all, or what I said to you. I’m asking you to be honest with me James. Just be honest with me, can’t you? Do you think I can’t notice things? Do you think I’ve been blind for the past four years? No, forget that, I probably have been, totally blind. But I can detect some things, you know. There’s a clue in my job, Detective Inspector. I notice things.”

“What things?” James whispered, looking down again, rocking slightly as he hugged himself tightly, having put down his coffee.

“The silences. The not looking at me. The looking at me. Your bloody scarky comments that hide the truth.”

James wished he could die, right here, right now. He tensed even further, hardly daring to breathe out. “Sorry,” he said so quietly Robbie couldn’t hear him.

“Just be bloody honest with me James. Why did you kiss me?”

James took a deep breath and forced himself to look at his boss. “It was the drugs. And the shock. I’d have never have dared to...”

“And?” Robbie prompted.

“And I think I’ve wanted to do that since I first met you, probably.”

“Thank you. Finally.”

James looked down again. “I’m so sorry sir. I’ll get a transfer...”

“Why? And it’s Robbie. You really don’t remember the kiss at my flat at all, do you?”

James looked very confused, staring up in bewilderment. “I kissed you,” he said.

“Yes, and I kissed back.”

“I don’t remember that,” James said, feeling quite alarmed now.

“Okay, I’ll tell you, shall I? You pressed your lips to mine, very gently and me, a stupid old fool, considering what you’d just been through, me, I... well, shall I show you?”

James practically leapt back, pressing himself to the car door. “No!”

“Alright, James. I’ll never do anything you don’t want me to. I’ll tell you. I shoved my tongue in your mouth and sucked your tongue and I’ve not kissed so passionately since Val’s been gone and was about to push you underneath me when I came to my senses and realised you’d just been raped. Raped! And I was behaving like a right bastard.”

James, drugged, tired and hungry, had to struggle to follow all he was being told, his boss’ accent suddenly much more Geordie than he’d ever heard him.

“Then I told you, which you have also forgotten, that I will not take advantage of you in such a vulnerable situation. And that still stands, however bloody hard the last few days have been, waking up with you in my bed when all I’ve wanted for the past few months have been to... No. Forget it.”

“What?” James demanded, staring, wide eyed, half believing he’d gone mad and was hallucinating, or perhaps the lack of food had got him and he’d passed out and was dreaming. It didn’t feel like a dream. He didn’t think his fantasy Robbie Lewis would sound so incomprehensible.

“Look, I went out with Laura Hobson to talk to a friend about my feelings for you. You, you stupid boy. And how all I’ve wanted to do for years is bend you over your own desk and fuck you senseless, fuck your brains out, fuck you ’til you can’t walk!”

James started to shake his head, hand over his mouth.

“I wouldn’t, of course. Not literally.” Robbie stared out of the window, unable to look at James, wild eyed and afraid.

There was a deep silence for a few moments.

“Would have been nice,” James suddenly said, quietly. “Do you not think I’ve thought about how I want you inside me?”

Robbie looked back at James and smirked, “And how many Hail Marys do you have to say for such wicked impure thoughts?”

“Oh. Hundreds!” James smiled and leaned forward, closing his eyes, allowing his boss to kiss him, gently at first but as Robbie grew more insistent, more passionate James pushed him away.

“It’s too late! I’m sorry”” He ran from the car, across the car park and climbed the fence and into the meadow where he lit a cigarette...

By the time Robbie had caught up with him he’d finished his cigarette and was flicking it away as Robbie Lewis walked up to him, touching him gently on the back.

“Okay now?”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“It’s Robbie.”

“Then I’m sorry Robbie. I wanted this. God knows how much I’ve wanted this, God forgive me! How much I’ve tortured myself wanting this, you, needing you...” James span around and stared at Robbie, concluding archly, “Since you’ve asked me to be honest!”

“We’ve all the time in the world.”

James span back round, hugging himself, his shoulders tense. He said nothing.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

James began to tremble. “No.”

Robbie touched James again, on his shoulder, sliding his hand gently down James’ arm. “Come back to the car, pet.”

James began to shake violently, not just with bad memories, as he rewound conversations over the past few days and realised this wasn’t he first time he’d been called pet, but he’d been deaf to them, not paying attention. “Okay,” he agreed numbly.

“I spoke too soon.”

James felt numb now, it must be the sedative Dr. Cox had given him he supposed. “No.”

“Come on,” Robbie gently but firmly led James back to the car. In the car he said to James, “We’ll pretend we never had this conversation. We’re both so good at pretending.”

James looked up again through his eyelashes, his head bowed slightly. “I think it’s too late to go back, don’t you Sir?”

“Don’t call me...” But Robbie never finished as the softest, swiftest of gentle kisses silenced him. “James?” Robbie kissed James again, trying to keep it light and gently, but as James responded he deepened the kiss, more passionate, parting James’ lips to push in his tongue again, feeling James tremble in his arms, feeling James’ hands in his hair, watching James’ flushed face, eyes closed, so close to him he could see the smudged, clogged mascara and streaks left by salted tears. He tasted of cigarettes, coffee and vanilla, which was suddenly the most intoxicating of combinations in the world.

James had responded to the kiss because it felt so right, but even though he began to tremble as he felt the tongue slide in his mouth, insistent, passionate, he didn’t pull away, but as Robbie grew more demanding, suddenly sucking his tongue he pulled away, pushing Robbie back.

“I can’t!” he covered his face with his hands, but didn’t run. “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. I can see him. Remember him. Laughing at me. Hurting me. I remember... Oh God! I remember! Sir! I remember. That woman. DI Harding. From Manchester. I remember. She came back to us. She came back!”

“What? What are you talking about?” Robbie was frankly alarmed by James mercurial mood swings. Of course, he was traumatized and intimacy would be difficult, but he had suddenly flipped from a hysterical, vulnerable boy to the DS Hathaway Lewis knew well, his very good sergeant, a very good detective, on to something. But what?

“I kept bumping into her. A weird coincidence. In the Bear. On the High. At Pear Tree. Then she turned back and I woke up at Marsden Ferry allotments. Until today that’s all I’ve been able to remember. It was seeing her on the CCTV that triggered my memories. I know how they got past the porter, why they had to kill him. We’ve got to get back now Sir. We’ve got to get Manchester CID to arrest her. It all fits. The lack of forensics. The scene suits. A DI planned the murder. Oh God!”

By now Lewis was driving, listening, trying to unpick Hathaway’s stream of consciousness.

“Came back? Came back to what?”

“To us. She walked back to him, to Sergei. She said she was a DI from Manchester, on his tail, knew what he was about to do, could get her friends to hold him while she called Oxford police, called us...”

“But she didn’t?”

“No. She then she gave him a choice. Said she’d leave him alone if he gave her some of the drugs he had. She’d just let him walk away with me if he gave her the Rohypnol. She said she needed someone out of the way, needed them to look the other way. He gave her a sachet, I saw it.”

“So the three of them get the porter to help look for the ear-ring...”

“And DI Harding sneaks into the lodge and puts Rohypnol in his tea, coffee, whatever it was. He was always so confused why he could remember nothing, not even sleeping.”

“Then they went in and killed him, finding somewhere to change into scene suits to clear up.”

“To change before the murder, they took spare clothes, remember. Luke found bloody clothes and the scene suits. Maybe we can find the room they used to change in.”

“Might find a stray finger print or hair, even after five days.”

“Doubt it Sir, they were very thorough. Oh God!”

“What?”

“She could have saved me. She let me get raped so she could murder the man who raped her! She could have prevented... That’s so sick.”

“We’ll bring her in. And the others. She’ll pay for it, don’t you worry. Are you okay?”

“No, of course not.”

“Honest answer James. Good.” The car hit the traffic, bad, heavy, late rush hour and tourist traffic. “Fancy taking the piss James?”

“Put the light on? Why?”

“Need to get to Innocent before she leaves. Have to explain in person, we need her rank to arrest another police’s DI. Get the light and ring to make sure she waits.”

“Sir.”

*.  
Lewis took the stairs two at a time at a run, but on the first landing he paused, aware Hathaway wasn’t keeping up with him. He looked back to see the lad half way down the stairs, bent over, clutching his stomach, moaning with pain. Lewis turned and ran down to him, stopping the step above and putting a hand to his back.

“Are you alright James?”

“No. I’ll catch you –”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he spat out between his teeth, looking as white as a sheet.

“James?”

“Really, it’s nothing. It’s blood, but it keeps happening. I’m fine, Sir. Really. I’ll see you in Innocent’s office.”

“If you’re sure,” Lewis said, turning to leave but still frankly alarmed by Hathaway’s pale face.

 

*

Innocent had listened intently and promised to get on to Manchester CID immediately, as well as issue warrants for the arrest of the other three women.

“Good work Robbie. Now get off and look after James.”

Lewis went back to their office, hoping James would be there. He was, sitting on the floor, curled up on his side, sitting on his thigh, struggling to breathe easily. He was on the phone, but looked up as Lewis entered, raising a hand in greeting. James listened intently for a few moments before speaking,

“Nothing to worry about. You sure?

“I can come in now.

“But I...” James switched his phone to loudspeaker and starting biting his thumbnail. It was an Irish woman speaking.

“And if this didn’t happen when were you thinking about seeing me, then?” She sounded more worried than angry.

“I’m sorry. I’ve not taken them since...”

“If a drug takes at least two weeks to work, did you not think it could hang around? Jesus, Mr. Hathaway, I’ve got e-mails and reports from three separate police doctors as well as the JR, never mind what those bastards gave you. You could have had a heart attack, you know that, don’t you?”

“No, I...”

“Just get here, now. I’ll wait. I’m supposed to be finishing at seven, but I’ll wait. Bye.”

James stared at his phone, before pressing end call and putting it back in his pocket. He looked down as if the carpet was the most facinating thing in the world.

Lewis was full of questions, beginning with heart attack, but he guessed they could wait. He sighed heavily.

“Your doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Come on the, I’ll drive you. Where are we going?”

“Donny Bridge Medical Centre.”

“Fine. Need help up?”

“I’m fine,” Hathaway said a little to sharply.

*

Lewis struggled for the next hour with asking all he was desperate to know, but wisely kept quiet, waiting for James in the waiting room, taking him home to shower and change into jeans, tee shirts and a jacket and then leaving him in his car while he went into Tescos. James said nothing either, just choosing some music and turning it up loud.

Once back in the car Lewis just touched James’ hair, the lightest of touches. James looked at him curiously. Robbie Lewis let his fingers trail down across James’ bruised cheek and around to his chin, cupping it.

James shivered. “Don’t,” he said and looked away.

Lewis drove, turning at Windmill Lane and driving up a narrow lane that seemed more rural than city, over a bridge and into a wooded car park. He parked, grabbed a blanket from the boot, along with the Tesco bags and started walking through the trees and down. James followed, smoking.

“Oh my God,” James said, meaning it, as they were on the top of a high hill, over looking Oxford and the surrounding countryside, the sun setting to west of the city, over the Thames Valley and the South Downs in the distance, far out on the horizon. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, we liked it,” Robbie said, shaking out the blanket, sitting down and pulling out paper cups, orange juice, strawberries, chicken drumsticks, crackers, some posh pate and German cheeses and salad, along with plastic knives and plates. Finally he produced crisps and cupcakes.

“We?” James asked, flicking his cigarette away and staring at the food, feeling suddenly like he could eat.

“Val. The kids. Sit down. You’re only allowed to eat this on the condition you don’t puke it up. This is bloody Finest range, cost an arm and a leg, if you want to throw your food down the toilet then eat something cheaper.”

James sat down, accepting a cup of orange juice. “You brought them here? Where are we?”

“Shotover Hill. Stretches all the way back to Wheatley, if you want to walk. Can’t drive, obviously. Not many people know it. Great, isn’t it? What a view, eh?”

“Um. Yeah.” James reached for the chicken.

“You eat, good lad. Val came here, with the school, when she... Well, after that we came up here, with the kids, until it just wasn’t cool to go on picnics with your parents.”

“And you brought me here? I’m flattered,” James said, attacking the strawberries. “We should have wine, though.”

“Aye, or champagne, if it comes to that. But for you, alcohol is off limits. You been mixing alcohol and the pills or what?”

James sighed and looked down, away from Robbie. “No. Although, I’m sure I’d be told off about the booze too if they knew. I didn’t tell the rape suite medics or the John Radcliffe that I was on Seroxat. If they’d known they wouldn’t... Well, I had some mega injection today, and I’m still high, tell the truth. Sleeping pill yesterday. The sedatives from A&E.”

“Heart attack,” Robbie said, remembering the doctor. “You don’t want to die, do you?”

James shrugged.

“I don’t want you to die. I’ve lost enough people I love.”

James looked up, staring. “Love?” he repeated.

“Maybe I didn’t make that clear at Port Meadow.”

“You were talking about sex,” James mumbled, blushing.

Robbie laughed gently. “They go together, pet. Or, at least in my book they do. Come here,” he said, pulling James into a hug, kissing him deeply, and pulling them down to lie side by side on the picnic rug. This time James tasted of oranges and strawberries and lipstick, which a little unexpected but fine. Better than fine. This time Robbie broke the kiss before James could panic. “Eat something,” he said, smiling, sitting up spreading pate on a cracker for James. James propped himself up by his elbow and accepted the food.

“Look James,” Robbie said, “There are things you need to tell me.”

“Like what?” James asked, mouthful, suddenly hungry and starting to binge.

A thousand questions leapt into Robbie’s mind. How long have you been on tranquillizers? When did you stop self-harming? How long have you been bulimic? Do you think you’re really gay or screwed up by being abused?

No, scrap that one, Robbie certainly had noticed in which direction his sergeant’s eyes wandered, and it wasn’t just him. James most certainly liked men: older men, rougher men, muscled men...

Mostly why were you thrown out of the seminary?

But they had all the time in the world together, so on to practical matters.

“About the bleeding.”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“I’m not going to die. The blood is from the lining torn and bruised, and veins keep bleeding, nothing for them to clot on. It’s not the artery, which I thought...”

“ On the stairs, you thought you were dying and you sent me away? Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Sir.”

“And don’t you bloody call me Sir!” Robbie said, grabbing James and rolling on top of him, but tickling him instead of kissing him, loving the sound of James’ laughter.

*


	11. THURSDAY MORNING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrests. Interviews. Convictions. James Hathaway comes out to himself!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The Counsellor and Lady Julian College are copyrighted and used here by kind permission.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic

Lewis and Hathaway went into work early, together, Lewis having spent the night on James’ sofa. The bruising on James’ face had almost vanished, and he seemed calmer, although nervous. Lewis had promised to keep the fact he was on Seroxat to himself, although he didn’t have to like it. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about weaning the boy off.

Over the night, Manchester, having been forwarded overwhelming forensics and CCTV, as well as plausible motive, had had no choice but to arrest DI Harding and bring her down to the custody suite at Kidlington. Things being much more straightforward in Brighton and Cardiff, as well as with the Met., Lewis’ team had each made an arrest with local uniform’s attendance. Fingerprints and DNA had been taken, matching prints in an empty room on Charles’ staircase as well as DNA on the bloodied clothes, scene suits, cleaning products and carrier bags. Ceris Pritchard’s car tyres marks matched the second scene and the poor, unfortunate porter’s body. Forensics had fast tracked the research, working all night.

In Interview Room 5 sat DI Amanda Harding. She had refused a solicitor. Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent stood at the back of the room, leaning on the door. WPC Hicks stood by the tape recorder. Lewis sat opposite Harding, having laid out copies of all the evidence. Harding wouldn’t look at it.

“I really can’t understand why on Earth I’m here,” she protested. “Okay, hands up, I shouldn’t have taken the guns with me just coz I was running late, I should have taken back to the nick and I definitely should have reported the break in, but I was angry at myself, feeling mortified, embarrassed, feeling stupid, take your pick!” She glared at Lewis and then glanced at Innocent.

Lewis sighed. “Then explain to me why we have your DNA on clothes and cleaning products used after the murder?”

Harding stood up, shouting down at Lewis, “I can’t! I didn’t do it! I’m saying nothing else. Don’t think I don’t know how this works, Inspector. You can’t manipulate me.”

Innocent strode forward. Angry. “Try me. I don’t know how you do things in Manchester, but my DIs don’t manipulate suspects.”

Lewis glanced at Innocent and then sighed dramatically and stood up, leaving Innocent to interview Harding alone.

*

Ceris’ solicitor had only been at his job a few months, having only qualified the previous year. He was young and mixed race, with dark rimmed geeky glasses and in other circumstances Ceris would have seduced him. As it was, she had little faith in him, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She had, at least, convinced him of her innocence. He had advised her to say nothing. She sat back in her chair, staring at the ceiling, also refusing to look at the evidence Lewis had laid out in front of her.

The solicitor thought the Inspector was operating on a very short fuse. He listened to the man sigh huffily before he repeated, “My client really has nothing to say to you Inspector.” To emphasise this his client turned her head to glare at the wall.

“Well, that’s not very helpful, is it?” Lewis said before he stood and walked over to the tape. “Interview suspended, 1048.”

*

Hathaway sat down opposite Maddy after nodding to Hooper to start the tape running. “Good afternoon Maddy. I can call you Maddy, can’t I?” Her head snapped up, she had been staring down, her head on her arms on the table. She was rather alarmed to think she recognised him from somewhere, sometime. It eluded her.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Hathaway just sat, leaning sideways in his chair, biting the skin around his thumbnail and staring at her, staring and waiting. Waiting and staring...

“Look!” Maddy burst out. “Sebastian Charles was a hateful man and I’m glad he’s dead, but I didn’t kill him Sergeant Hathaway. But his death is no great loss. I hated him. He was a bastard. He probably set me up for a lifetime of abusive husbands and boyfriends. I’m glad someone gave him what he deserved. But it wasn’t me.”

Just then a young uniformed officer entered the room and whispered to Hathaway that Alice Sayer wanted to see him.

*

Hathaway entered Interview Room 1 for the first time since he’d been there as a witness to find Alice in tears. Her solicitor had her arms around her and looked up to meet Hathaway’s stare.

“My client has something she wishes to say, Sergeant.”

Hathaway sat down. “Okay, Alice.” He nodded to the young officer who started the tape.

“I didn’t know they...” Alice sniffed heavily... “planned a murder.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I was outside. I didn’t see anything. You must believe me, I didn’t know.”

“Know what Alice?”

“I though we were going to meet him, see him for the sad case he was, not actually hurt him, let alone kill him.”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know! I was outside. Mandy told me I was an accessory and I had to keep quiet. Please believe me...” Alice suddenly started ranting hysterically, “He was a horrible man! He ruined my life! He probably made me gay! I’d never had a relationship until Lucy, and I was almost forty for goodness sakes!” She swallowed a sob, and continued, calmer, “But he didn’t deserve that. No-one does.” She calmed her breathing and dried her eyes on a tissue the solicitor gave her.

“What about the porter?”

Alice looked confused, “Porter?”

“The night porter from Lady Julian’s was murdered, as well. Squashed like a bug by a four by four.”

“Oh. How horrible. I know nothing about that. I need the loo. I’m going to be sick!”

Hathaway nodded to the WPC who came and took Alice’s arm and escorted out of the room.

*

Once Hathaway had told Lewis about Alice’s confession he and Innocent went back to Harding, once again spelling out all the evidence, coupled with Alice’s statement. Not only had they fingerprints from three of women taken from the empty college room they had a long, pink fake finger nail, with Ceris’ DNA. The women’s DNA was on the scene suits, bloodied clothes, cleaning products and plastic bags, as were fingerprints. Now they had Alice Sayer’s statement.

“All circumstantial and highly debatable. If the scene suits were stolen from my car they’d have my prints, wouldn’t they? Maybe the cleaning stuff was in my shopping. I don’t know.”

Innocent walked around the desk, glaring. “If all this isn’t enough to convict, we also had a reliable witness who was the last victim of those Russian bastards. He states you could have made an arrest – threatened to make an arrest! But instead you gave the bastard the chance to walk away with his victim in exchange for Rohypnol. The pathologist checked this morning, and was able to still find trace elements of Flunitrazepam in the porter’s kidneys. Enough to prove he’d been given it five, six days ago.”

“You can’t prove that.”

Lewis appeared to lose his temper. “You got guns and the knife and the scene suits from Manchester CID. You planned it. You couldn’t get past the dutiful porter so you drugged him instead of doing you job.” He stood up and leant over her. “You allowed those Russian bastards one more victim when you could have made the arrest and saved him.”

Harding looked up, coolly and calmly, into Lewis’ face. “If what you say is true, which I am not saying it is, then who is going to believe the words of one sad, drunk poof? You put him in court and any defence lawyer would tear him to shreds.”

Innocent, who had returned to standing by the door walked calmly and slowly into the room and paused at the ‘mirror’, patting her hair twice before turning back to look at Harding as if she were something the cat dragged in. “You make me sick DI Harding. You bring shame to every single one of us. We have your DNA and your fingerprints. We have motive. We have a witness.”

Harding watched Innocent prowl the room. “If the items were stolen from my car, as I’ve already said, they would have my DNA on them. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

Lewis snarled, “Our witness is certain you took the drug from Sergei Roschenkov.”

Harding looked momentarily confused at the mention of a Russian name. Innocent noticed. “Oh yes, we have the bastards in custody. One up for Thames Valley I think you’ll find.”

“Even if it is true, which is isn’t, as I’ve said,” began Harding, staring again at Innocent and failing to notice the door open, “no court will listen to some gay slag off his face-”

Innocent cut across Harding, “For the tape, DS Hathaway enters the room 1505.”

“I think you’ll find I’m a fairly reliable witness in court, DI Harding.”

Harding slumped, putting her head down on her hands resting on he desk. “Shit.”

Innocent smiled the sweetest of smiles, “Do you want to change your mind about a duty solicitor?”

“Maybe. Look, I didn’t kill him, Ceris did that. It was Ceris’ plan, she persuaded me to bring everything. The guns were supposed to be for security. I got them from the amnesties and I’ve cleaned ’em up and put ’em back. Same with the knife. I had no idea Ceris was going to mutilate the corpse. Sick. I had to look away.”

Lewis began, “So it was Ceris and...?”

“Maddy. She was so stoned and drunk by then. She’d been smoking dope all night and hitting hard on the gin.”

“And the porter?”

“What? Is he dead too? I have no idea about that. I just slipped the drug into his pot of tea.” Harding looked up, staring at Hathaway, seeing for sure he was the same young man she’d kept bumping into, the same young man she’d watch lose conscious control, the same young man she’d handed back to that Russian rapist. “Still think the court will tear you to shreds. Don’t know how you can possibly remember so well?”

“Oh, I think the court will listen to DS Hathaway. And he wasn’t drunk; he’d barely touched alcohol all that day. He’s not your typical victim. I think you’ll find my sergeant is an excellent detective with a forensic eye for detail and a near photographic memory. If pushed, he’ll remember your conversation with Roschenkov word for word.”

“For the record,” Lewis added dryly, “My sergeant is far from being a slag, either.”

Harding nodded numbly. “Uh huh. Right. Thanks.”

“Just to clarify things, Amanda,” Lewis began, “Ceris stabbed him, Ceris planned the whole bloody thing and Ceris was behind the whole mutilation...”

“Yes! Yes! And I bet she’s the one who killed the porter. I’m sorry about that, but I’m not sorry about Seb Charles being dead. He was a raping bastard who got what he deserved!”

*

Hathaway went back to Madeline Stewart taking his boss with him, who laid out all the evidence, explaining gently what they had, and what Harding and Sayer had confessed to. He then explained, in detail, that they had a witness, how Harding had obtained the drug, what her getting the drug had allowed the witness to suffer and why the porter had had to die. Maddy stared, horrified, at Hathaway as Lewis told her. She was a bit hazy about the park and ride, only knowing they’d got back on the bus after they had arrived because Ceris – or was it Mandy? – had figured a way into the college. She recognized the sergeant now, from the Bear. The cute one. They’d bitched about his make-up, she remembered.

“I’m sorry!” she suddenly snapped, screaming up at Hathaway, ignoring his boss, “I’m sorry okay. You don’t know what it was like! Or maybe you do, but I doubt it. You went through it once, this was over and over, for three years, always the threats and the snide remarks and the... Look I must have been mad! He made me mad; he probably set me up for a pattern of abusive husbands and boyfriends. Or did I say that? I think I was a bit mad, okay? I was stoned and drunk and my husband had beaten the crap out of me for daring to go out with my girl friends and when Ceris pushed the gun into my hand I thought, yeah, why not? Get the creep back for all he put me through.” She struggled to calm herself, taking a deep breath. She was shaking. “He was already dead though. Ceris stabbed him, cleanly, like she was a butcher or something. I always thought Ceris was a bit scary.”

Lewis sighed and rubbed at his eye. “Thank you, Mrs Stewart.”

“And the porter?” Hathaway pushed.

“I have no idea. Ceris, I would guess, but I don’t know.”

*

With all the evidence, a witness and all three testifying against her, Ceris Pritchard admitted to both murders. She showed no sign of remorse or guilt.

Innocent was immensely pleased with the results. She had a double college murder solved in less than a week and on top of that, five years of cold and on-going investigations into drugging, abduction and sexual assaults with the bonus of the fact that not only were the Oxfordshire cases solved, but many more across not only England but several other European countries across countless cities. Added to that was the fact that not only was the ongoing Interpol investigation at an end but the men had been people trafficking and had been bringing in heroine from Turkey and taking out British grown skunk to France and Germany. All this had ended. She was positively glowing, so happy she offered to take Lewis and Hathaway out for a drink.

“Er, don’t think so ma’am,” Lewis said kindly but firmly as Hathaway, alarmed and showing it, had started backing out of her office, “I have plans ma’am. And as for James,” he added, glancing at James, almost by the door, “he’s off the booze, doctor’s orders. But yes ma’am, good results. But not for Hathaway, remember that ma’am. I’ve seen a little bit too much jubilation from Laxton’s team as it is.”

“No. Of course. I do appreciate that. But James is fine, aren’t you? Your bruises have nearly gone, haven’t they?”

“Almost, ma’am,” Hathaway mumbled, not trusting himself to look at her. Lewis was suddenly beside him, opening the door for him.

“Good night ma’am,” he said firmly, following James out of the office. “Tact in our boss would be nice, don’t you think James?”

James snorted.

“Okay then pet?”

James smirked at the secretary, who had raised an eyebrow at ‘pet’. They left the outer office and walked through the building in silence, James quietly acquiescing to Lewis opening every door they came to.

In the car park Lewis finally spoke, only to suggest they went for a drink somewhere else for a change, to the Castle Tavern on Castle Street, just for a change.

“No,” James said firmly. “Definitely no. The Trout will do fine Sir.”

“But maybe sometime you might be ready, don’t you think?”

James span round and glared at his boss. “What is this? Are you trying to help me get over what happened or help me come out to myself? Because I can assure you, I’m not going to get over it for a long time, and going to a pub with a rainbow flag outside will make sod all difference! And I am what I am Sir, Catholic and gay, going to a pub won’t chance how I feel about myself. Besides, I like the Trout. It has a nice garden, with a river and ducks and...” He stopped, aware that Robbie Lewis was laughing at him, howbeit ever so gently. “What?”

“It’s neither, you daft sod, I’m asking you out on a date.”

James Hathaway smiled widely and looked up at the sky and started to laugh, a happy laugh, but with the slightest edge of hysteria. When he managed to stop he said,

“Well, yes to a date Sir, but the Trout will still do.”


End file.
